Belonging and Believing
by EstelRaca
Summary: Everyone needs a place to belong. For a werewolf, this is even more important. Grantaire had given up on ever finding a pack that would accept him and that he could accept, but hope springs eternal. He isn't the only unique stray that Les Amis come across in 1831, either. Enjolras' pack is determined to both fix the wolves' society and help their human friends win freedom.
1. Prologue: Eyes

**Disclaimer:** The characters belong to Victor Hugo, as does part of the plot.

**Author's Note:** I love werewolves. Occasionally I go through werewolf withdrawal, and have strange ideas like this, which is an AU of Les Mis where many of the main characters are werewolves. The primary players will be Les Amis, Marius, and Cosette. If other people are interested, I will also continue this.

_February, 1831_

_Prologue: Eyes_

He doesn't realize there are other wolves in the café at first.

It's a foolish mistake. It's a child's mistake, the type of thing that a young wolf barely away from his birth pack would make. In any large city, and especially in Paris or another city with a university, there were too many wolves around for a stray to afford to be careless.

Then again, most young wolves looking for pack wouldn't be drowning themselves in drink. Most young wolves wouldn't have to fear that they would forget to bow their head to an alpha. Most young wolves wouldn't be out, packless, in the middle of winter.

Most young wolves could approach each new pack as another opportunity to find a place to stay, but Grantaire has long since grown weary of trying and failing to acquire a home.

He had realized that wolves used the café, at least. It smelled of their kind, with over a dozen comingled scents crisscrossing the area, but that wasn't uncommon. Wolves were social creatures; humans were social creatures; so long as they kept their nature hidden, it wasn't uncommon for wolves to frequent human haunts. Their ability to blend in with humans was what made it possible for most strays to stay alive. Strays simply had to be careful to avoid using the human gathering places at the same time that the pack whose territory they trespassed in wanted it.

He should have followed the pack's scent more closely. He should have paid attention to the way that the scents of the pack all converged on one door, gathering together, marking out a lair in their territory. He should have noticed how fresh and strong the scents were, how they criss-crossed with old scents, and thought better of using this particular café for his latest drinking binge.

He should have, but he hadn't, and all the should haves in the world won't be of any help to him as he stares in bleary confusion at the dozen wolves suddenly emerging from a back room of the café.

They don't notice him at first. He's only one wolf, and he doesn't carry the heavy reek of pack magic that they do. He doesn't draw their eyes the way they draw his.

If he's smart, he'll leave now. He'll run before they drive him out, hoping that if some of them decide to come nipping at his heels they'll be satisfied enough with his quick departure that they won't decide to pursue the matter to bloodshed.

He can't seem to find his feet, though. They're stuck fast to the ground, rooted in place, just as his eyes are fixed unblinking on the pack's alpha.

The pack's alpha is beautiful, long blond hair framing his face, piercing blue eyes that seem to look at everything at once. He's female, though dressed in male human clothes like most female wolves. Their kind don't have as many differences between the sexes as humans do, and most female wolves would chafe and growl at the restrictions placed on human females. Easier to play the part of male, and not a problem for their people, who could tell from a sniff what humans seemed to be incapable of comprehending even with long acquaintance.

The pack alpha continues his conversation with another of his wolves, talking quietly, in a tone that Grantaire can't hear. Grantaire's certain that the alpha knows he's present, though. Too many of the other wolves are staring at Grantaire for the alpha to not have felt their alertness, their eagerness, their uncertainty.

There is a stranger in their territory, a stray, too old to be an overeager pup.

There is a danger to be dealt with.

There are the alpha's eyes finally turning to Grantaire, so blue, blue as ice and bright as the sky, and Grantaire drops his gaze instinctively. His head bows low, a sign of humility, of obeisance, and he extends his head, baring as much of his neck as he can while still appearing human to the rest of the unsuspecting patrons in the bar.

After a long moment the eyes leave him, taking the full force of the alpha's power with them. It doesn't matter. Grantaire continues to stare at the scarred tabletop, mind and heart a blur of aching confusion.

He obeyed.

The alpha looked at him, and he obeyed.

Without thinking, without considering, without wondering, his body did what it should always do, what his scent tells others to expect him to do, and put him into a position of submission.

He looks up too late. The alpha has already lead his pack to the door, is stepping out into the street. They're leaving him in their territory without a fight, without even a warning. It is a kindness, a gesture of courtesy and compassion that Grantaire has had on a few other occasions but has long since trained himself not to expect or even want.

He wants to chase the pack down. He wants to ask their names, if they have other affiliations, if they would consider—

But no. He mustn't even think of that, not even for a moment. No pack would want him, not defective as he is. That has been made perfectly clear to him, and he accepts it without hesitation.

He can't chase the pack. To chase them could be considered to challenge them. Their alpha may permit him this kindness, this place where his pack lairs amidst the humans, but he would not be welcomed at their true lair. To try to hunt them to their den would be sacrilege.

But perhaps he can wait here. Perhaps he can stay, and maybe when the pack returns they will allow him to continue to sit here, silent and still, no trouble to anyone. Perhaps they will let him watch them, just watch, nothing more, he knows they'll want nothing more.

Perhaps the alpha will look at him again, and he will do what any proper wolf would when face to face with an alpha of that glorious magnitude, and it will be almost but not quite like being in a pack.

He takes a long, slow drink, settling back in his chair, the ecstasy that had come from being normal fading as the scents of the pack become just that, scents, not vibrant-hot trails full of their rank and mate-bonds and pack-bonds and sex.

Perhaps they will turn on him tomorrow, when they find the stray still lurking in their café. Perhaps they will take him in back, into the room where they had been, and threaten him, or bloody him, or perhaps even kill him. They would be in their right.

Somehow, thinking of the alpha's blue eyes on him, Grantaire can't bring himself to worry about these possibilities.


	2. Part One: The Calm

**Disclaimer:** Les Mis characters all belong to Victor Hugo.

**Author's Note:** I'm thrilled there are people interested in this! I suppose it could be seen as vaguely furry, but it's really the themes related to the werewolf mythos or that are commonly played with in werewolf stories that I find fascinating (themes of belonging, of community, of the duality of man with regards to intellect and emotion, of instinct, of fear, of dominance and submission, of empathy, of gender). This chapter fleshes out the werewolf society I've created a bit more. There are also a lot of pairings introduced (Combeferre/Coufeyrac, Bahorel/Jehan, Joly/Bossuet/Musichetta), and a fair amount of gender-bending.

_Part One: The Calm _

"He's still there."

Enjolras ignores the other wolf at his side, trying to finish reading the papers that Combeferre had given him earlier in the afternoon before he and Coufeyrac join the rest of the pack in the back room of the Musain.

"Really, he's sitting right there, in his usual corner. Just in case you had missed him."

"Coufeyrac, please." Enjolras finally looks up at his gamma, who is currently walking backwards, his eyes fixed on the door to the Musain proper that now hides the stray from their sight. "I am aware that he is still there. Is there anything in particular that you wish I would _do_ about it?"

"Oh, so you did notice that he's watching us like a love-sick pup. Good. I was beginning to think your powers of observation may be slipping." Coufeyrac turns so he's facing Enjolras, both of them standing quietly in the small corridor. "Though it may be unfair to say that he's watching _us_. I'm fairly certain that he's largely watching _you_."

"I _am_ the pack alpha. It's only natural that he'd watch me, since according to the customs of our people I technically have power of life and death over him." Enjolras sighs, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. He knew he would have to deal with the stray sooner or later, but the idea of driving the man off is decidedly distasteful. He's not hurting anyone. Still, if that's what the pack wants… some instincts weren't as easy to ignore or suppress as others. "We'll ask the others what they wish to do. If the consensus is to drive him off, I'll do so."

Coufeyrac gapes at him for a moment, and Enjolras can feel amusement, chagrin, and a deep-seated affection flow along the bond that he shares with the lower-ranked female. "Who said I want to drive him off?"

"Why else would you call him to my attention?" Enjolras frowns, trying not to bring any of his discomfiture down on Coufeyrac. If he misread the situation, then Coufeyrac has every right to be amused, and Enjolras isn't going to police his pack's hearts and minds. Let other alphas do so if they wish. Enjolras wants allies, not subjects.

Coufeyrac rubs his head against Enjolras' shoulder, eyes downcast. If his ears and tail were present, they would be lowered in a display of respect, though it's affection that Enjolras feels through their bond before the other wolf pulls away. "Because he's been sitting in that one little corner of the Musain for going on two weeks now, and he watches us as though his heart is both ecstatic and breaking each time we come and go, and I want to change it. You know how I hate seeing cubs suffer, Enjolras."

"He's hardly a cub, and the only ways to change his situation are to either drive him off or make him pack." Frowning, Enjolras shakes his head. "He won't approach us to ask to be Pack. He would have shown some inclination to do so already if he was going to."

"And who says he has to approach us?" The triumphant smile on Coufeyrac's face shows a bit too much white tooth to be entirely human.

"Our customs and our instincts. Which we are very good at ignoring when it suits us, I know, so don't deign to lecture me on it." Starting to walk again, Enjolras considers the problem carefully. "He might not want to be involved with our pack once he gets to know us a bit better. We are rather… unique. And it would be putting him in danger, to invite him into the pack. That's the reason we turned away most of the young ones the last two years."

"We accepted Jehan." Coufeyrac walks at Enjolras' side, matching his slow pace, the pack-bond between them a bundle of manic energy and potential from Coufeyrac and quiet consideration from Enjolras. "We turned away others because they didn't fit, or we didn't want the fighting they would bring, or because they disagreed with our views on rather important things like humanity. Besides, the pack's near to capacity. Even you can only hold so many pack-bonds, Enjolras."

"That's not a problem." Waving a hand, Enjolras allows a slight smile to grace his face as he mentally touches his bond to each of his pack members in turn. Most don't notice, too wrapped up in what they're doing. Only Combeferre touches the bond in turn, a pulse of curiosity and uncertainty that Enjolras can read as easily as words.

_Where are you? Why are you late?_

Enjolras sends back a pulse of calm, a sense of pack and security and Coufeyrac that Combeferre will read just as easily. "I don't think I'm anywhere near my limit so far as pack-bonds go."

Coufeyrac blinks, hesitancy and something akin to fear flashing through his mind before being forcefully discarded.

Enjolras tries very hard not to notice, or to care. Fear is a reasonable response to the unknown, and he is an unknown. There has never been an alpha as strong as Enjolras, at least as far as any of the pack or their acquaintances can tell.

With a bright smile Coufeyrac touches Enjolras' arm. "Well, then. There's no reason not to at least make him the invitation, is there? It wouldn't cause a problem with rankings. You've caught his scent. I've never scented anyone as submissive as that stray. And there aren't any bonds on him, no mates, no sense of a recent pack. It should be simple."

"So far as us and our pack go, things are very rarely simple." Enjolras pauses, his hand on the door that will reunite them with the rest of the pack for an evening of mixed rest and planning. "We'll put it to a vote. If the others agree to it, then you can invite the stray to at least come meet us. If he won't meet us, we'll most likely have to drive him off, though I'll keep suppressing the instinct for that for as long as I can."

"Very well." Coufeyrac grins, slinging his arm around Enjolras' shoulders and throwing open the door to their meeting room with fierce good cheer. "Let the debate begin!"

XXX

Combeferre looks up at the sound of his mate's voice, sighing in mixed relief and exasperation. His alpha is here. His mate is here. The pack is whole and together again, and that makes it much easier to ignore the instincts that are shouting at him that something is wrong.

Enjolras is the strongest Alpha he's ever met. Coufeyrac can take care of himself, as well, and Combeferre had been able to tell through their mate-bond that nothing was wrong with the other wolf. The idea of the scruffy-looking, rather pathetic stray being able to injure either Coufeyrac or Enjolras is ridiculous, even if the stray _is_ on the larger side for a wolf.

That doesn't stop his pack-instincts from telling him that he should drive the stray off, protect his pack, do his duty as beta and protector. It's really quite… annoying, and Combeferre wishes that just telling the little snarling beast in the back of his mind that everything's all right would be enough to quiet it.

Enjolras' power touches his mind, gently, and a shiver runs through Combeferre as cold blue fire swarms over his uncertainties. When the fire withdraws the groundless doubts and fears have faded, pushed further from his conscious mind, leaving his thoughts as free as they had been before the stray appeared.

Enjolras smiles at him, serene, confident, perfectly in control, though the smile fades after a silence that stretches just a moment too long. "I'm sorry, old friend, if I overstepped my bounds. Should I not have—"

"No. Yes." Combeferre hesitates before moving over to the two wolves and pulling Coufeyrac into his own arms. "No. You did what an alpha should, in situations such as these, and I appreciate it. But yes, I wish you had asked before doing it."

Coufeyrac nuzzles against Combeferre's neck, but his gaze is for Enjolras as he grins widely. "I hereby grant you permission to stomp on any pesky alpha-level instincts I may have, now or in the future, especially with regards to people who have done me no harm."

Nipping his mate's ear, Combeferre finds himself relaxing, a smile starting to tug at his mouth. He does feel better having the instincts quelled under Enjolras' power, and he _had_ been thinking that he wanted them gone. Given Enjolras' almost uncanny ability to read the emotions that flowed freely over pack-bonds, it was nearly as good as a request and an invitation. Not quite, not really, and Enjolras will know that for the future, but it's certainly nothing worth fighting about right now. "You don't _have_ any alpha instincts, Coufeyrac. You want to coddle the stray, not attack him."

"I don't want to coddle him." Coufeyrac pouts. "To coddle him would be to imply that I want to protect him from things which he should be quite capable of facing. I just want to give the stray a fighting chance. Besides, look at him. See the way he watches us! All wolves should have a pack, Combeferre. Being without pack, being without pack-bonds, is like… is like being a bird without feathers, or a fish without water, or a human without other humans! It's an intolerable position to see one of our people in."

"Wolves that old without a pack usually have something wrong with them." It's Bahorel who speaks, emerald green eyes flitting between the three higher-ranked wolves. He shares a table with Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta, though he leans back in his chair to run his fingers over Jehan's neck and shoulders where the younger wolf sits at a neighboring table. "It could be dangerous, taking him in."

"Things that other packs think are wrong are not always the fault of the one being shunned." Feuilly speaks quietly, leaning over to rest his head against Monet's shoulder as he does so. The female wolf tilts her head, rubbing her chin against his hair, and her arm closes possessively, protectively around him. "Best not to judge him for any potential crime until we know what it is."

"He could be ill." Joly speaks hesitantly, one of his hands reaching out to Bossuet, one to Musichetta. "He looks rather ill, and his behavior has been… strange, even for a stray. The way he watches us, the way he stays in this place despite our presence… it's possible he has rabies, or one of the other brain-sicknesses. And he drinks far more than any wolf has a right to. His scent reeks of spirits."

"So does Bahorel's, on occasion, as well as other… less normal things. We've yet to kick him out of the pack for it." Jehan smiles, ducking his head and baring his neck to the higher-ranked wolf as he speaks. For his part, Bahorel just grins.

"Well, then." Enjolras' voice is quiet, but it immediately arrests all of their attention. "You all know the topic of debate. Coufeyrac would like to talk with the stray and offer him a position in the pack—at least a meeting with us, to determine his compatibility with the pack. I believe, in a matter as important as this, that we should all have a say. We will put the issue to a vote."

"I vote yes." Feuilly speaks up quickly, eyes scanning the room. "We at least meet him, and give him a chance to explain himself. He could have a very good reason for his eccentricities, and it's not like there will be any harm in simply talking with him."

"Unless he has rabies. Or a contagious form of meningitis. Do you know how many different kinds of meningitis there—"

"We give him a chance." Musichetta speaks overtop of Joly, but if the subordinate wolf minds he doesn't say so as he trails off. "That's my vote. We'll be careful not to let him injure or bite any of us, in case he does have a sickness of some kind, but the only thing that is usually contagious through words is ideas."

"Agreed." Bossuet squeezes Joly's hand gently, leaning against the other wolf. "With Musichetta. I'd say the stray's had a good solid run of bad luck. Whether being introduced to us could really be considered a stroke of good luck is up for debate, but I vote we give him the chance."

Joly sighs, looking between his two mates and smiling fondly. "As do I. I wouldn't have turned him away. I just wanted everyone to be aware of the potential dangers."

Monet shakes her head, looking over at the trio with amusement. "Consider us informed. As for me, I side with Feuilly. We talk with the stray."

"I want to talk to him. I want to hear his story." Keeping his eyes low, Jehan stares in the general direction of the trio of high-ranked wolves, not actually meeting any of their gazes. His words are clear, though, his voice strong.

Combeferre can feel, faintly, the battle of conscious thought and instinct in Jehan's being. Jehan has known since he joined the pack that he is considered an equal, a companion, his opinions valued and his discussion points thoroughly considered. That knowledge doesn't touch the instincts of a thousand years that tell him to show obeisance to his superiors, to bow his head and make himself vulnerable.

Enjolras hesitates a moment, his eyes flicking to Combeferre. With a slight shake of his head, Combeferre answers Enjolras' unspoken question. Enjolras can't simply suppress all of their warring nature, their duality of soul and purpose. If any of their ideas are to be implemented, if any of their push for change is to be considered seriously by other packs, then they must prove that it can be done even without Enjolras' direct interference.

Jehan raises his head, a slight grin touching his lips, and meets Enjolras' eyes for a moment. Combeferre can't feel what, if anything, Enjolras sent to the young male through the pack-bond, but it was effective.

"Invite him." Bahorel has no trouble meeting any of their gazes. "Appease our curiosity, at least, and if he doesn't work out then we do what any other pack would've done a week ago."

"Gently." Coufeyrac frowns at Bahorel, teeth slightly bared. "There's not going to be any brawling with the stray unless he starts it."

"Fine." Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Bahorel drops his eyes. "I don't like beating on helpless things, anyway. You know that."

"I do." Coufeyrac pulls free from Combeferre, moving over to the green-eyed man and embracing him from behind, placing his head above Bahorel's. "You enjoy fighting; you enjoy hunting; you hate a slaughter."

Coufeyrac's stance is a position of comfort and a position of authority all in one, and Combeferre finds himself smiling as he leans against Enjolras and watches his mate.

"Combeferre?" Enjolras' voice is a comforting rumble where Combeferre is pressed against his chest. "Your vote?"

"Something needs to be done." Combeferre straightens, moving away from Enjolras so he can face his alpha. "There's really only one way that we can resolve this and stay true to the principles we've been espousing."

"We're all in agreement, then." Enjolras turns his gaze on Coufeyrac. "I know you wanted to go; I grant permission. Speak to the stray. Bring him if he will come. Warn him of the likely ramifications if he chooses not to."

"As you command." Coufeyrac straightens, a fire in his eyes that Combeferre hasn't seen often. "If I'm not back in an hour, let Combeferre off his leash to come find me."

"If I sense you're injured, nothing in all of France will keep me from finding the stray and ripping him to pieces." Combeferre speaks the words easily, serenely. There even is serenity in the feelings that consume him as he considers the possibility of Coufeyrac being hurt, because his reaction is something his instincts and his intellect are in perfect agreement on.

"I'll be fine." Pausing in front of Combeferre, Coufeyrac hesitates before stepping forward and crushing himself tight to Combeferre's body. Coufeyrac's tongue brushes against Combeferre's neck, submissive, reassuring.

Coufeyrac's teeth also slide against Combeferre's neck for a moment, a thrill, a brief challenge, and Combeferre growls in sudden frustrated excitement. For a moment his arms wrap around his mate, crushing the female wolf to his body; then he releases Coufeyrac, pushing gently against Coufeyrac until the other wolf moves away.

He isn't surprised to see Coufeyrac's chest shaking with silent laughter, and he can't keep an answering smile from his face. "Off with you."

"I'm off." Coufeyrac pauses at the door, looking from Enjolras to Combeferre to Bahorel and down through the rest of the pack, ending by meeting Jehan's gaze.

The pack can't howl to see him off, not in the Musain, not in Paris, not with the press of humanity all around them.

That doesn't stop their pack-bonds from resonating with their collective hopes, needs, well-wishes, the essence of who and what they are, and Combeferre finds himself breathless by the time the door closes behind Coufeyrac. Others seem equally affected by the strength of their pack-bond, mated pairs pulling close to each other, those pairs or trios then pressing close against other pairs, closing in, closing ranks, defining the pack.

Combeferre doesn't know when he pressed himself against Enjolras. He just knows that it feels right, feels safe, that he trusts his alpha and, if he can't have his mate at his side, will gladly substitute Enjolras for him.

Enjolras strokes his hair, smiles at him, but stands unperturbed, seemingly unaffected by the strength of the magic binding them together. Gathering his scattered thoughts, forcing linearity and logic back overtop the sheer, burning energy of instincts and pack-amplified emotion, Combeferre probes as far as he dares along his bond to Enjolras.

Enjolras is happy.

Enjolras is _very_ happy, content even, a conduit and a focus-point for the pack magic, reveling in rather than drowning in the emotions of his people, and Combeferre withdraws as Enjolras turns to look at him with questioning eyes.

Shaking his head, Combeferre deflects any concerns Enjolras may have with a wave of trust and happiness of his own.

Their pack is strange. Their ideas are strange—blasphemous to some of their people, incomprehensible to others, the foolish dreaming of young pups not yet ready to face the world to still others. Their pack magic is strange, the ties between them strong, taut with potential, and their utilization of those pack bonds is even stranger.

But they're happy.

Enjolras is happy.

Their strange alpha, too strong, too determined, too high-ranked for most to believe their noses when they first met him, isn't just handling the strain the pack places on him. He's _thriving_ on it, purposefully diving further into it, purposefully keeping the bonds between all of them bright and strong.

The last concern he had about bringing the stray into the pack melts away, and Combeferre silently wishes Coufeyrac the best of luck in his endeavor.

No wolf should be without a pack and they have, in Combeferre's unbiased, scientific assessment, the best pack that ever existed.


	3. Part Two: The Offer

**Author's Note:** I'm glad people have still been enjoying this! It's a concept that I'm really enjoying. All the werewolves refer to each other by male pronouns; sex and gender are understood differently by them, and the ramifications of accidentally outing a higher-ranked wolf as female to the human population is not worth what they see as a small distinction linguistically. So for them, out loud, everyone defaults to male. This will be explored later when some human characters appear.

_Part Two: The Offer_

The wolf comes bounding out of the back room of the café a half hour or so after the pack gathered, a wild, happy grin on his face. He immediately looks towards the corner where Grantaire has taken up his residence the last two weeks, and if anything his smile widens on seeing the stray still there.

Grantaire sits stunned, caught like a rabbit or a deer suddenly faced with a charging predator. Like prey, he should find his heart and his feet and run. He should leave while he still has all his limbs intact, before he can get into an altercation with this pack.

He doesn't want to fight with them. They've been kind to him, leaving him this space, allowing him the joy of at least watching a normal pack function, not injuring him.

If he doesn't want to fight, he has to run.

But he doesn't want to run. He wants to stay here, he wants to continue to watch their alpha, he wants to listen when they emerge from their den and speak with the rest of the humans. Sometimes they speak of nothing, of people and events at the university that Grantaire doesn't understand; sometimes they speak of matters that are important to the humans. Of civil unrest, of standing up to the monarchy, of rebellion, and Grantaire has never heard a pack take the side of the low-ranked humans before.

He'd like to keep hearing it, even if he doesn't understand it, even if it's probably just a ruse. He'd like—

"Hello." The strange wolf settles down in the empty chair across the table from Grantaire, placing both his hands flat on the table in front of him.

Showing that he isn't a threat, that this isn't to be a battle immediately, and Grantaire relaxes slightly despite the panicked instincts and bitter experience of the last few years telling him that this is a foolish thing to do.

"That's better, my friend. No need for so much panic and despair—certainly not on my account!" The strange wolf grins, a happy expression, a grin that could very well belong to a true human. He wears the guise of his humanity well, better than most of their people. "Now, how about we get to know each other a bit better?"

They don't speak for a few long seconds. To those humans watching, not much is happening, but Grantaire can see the other wolf open his mouth just a bit before drawing a deep breath. Pulling air into his mouth and nose at the same time, and the pack wolf's eyes glaze slightly as he siphons through the scents of the tavern.

Grantaire follows suit. This is likely for his benefit, after all. The pack-wolf would have caught his scent before, would already have read his rank and sex and lack of any mate or pack-bonds. Grantaire hasn't had a chance to see all the pack wolves alone and do the same, though he's lingered over each of their scent-trails over the past few days.

This wolf is female, though like the rest of the pack he dresses like a male human. This wolf is dominant—in nearly any other pack, this wolf would be alpha. Not in this pack, though. Not when he shares a pack with the blond wolf with the blue eyes. This wolf is mated, to another dominant wolf, to one close to his own rank, and Grantaire frowns, trying to disentangle the other wolf's scent and determine which is more dominant. It shouldn't be so difficult. Wolves in the same pack didn't have the same rank; mated wolves weren't ever the same rank.

"Now that we're a little better acquainted, I'm Courfeyrac." The pack-wolf holds his hand out, smiling more gently now. There's an undercurrent of confusion and uncertainty to his expression, though.

"Grantaire." Taking Courfeyrac's hand for a brief second, Grantaire tries not to curse out loud as he finally remembers to lower his head, to drop his eyes. This is a dominant wolf. They've just read each other's scent, and this wolf will expect him to act as his body says he is, subordinate.

"It's very nice to make your acquaintance, Grantaire." Courfeyrac smiles again, the joy quickly outshining the hesitancy in his face. "You've made the last few weeks rather exciting for us, you know."

"I do realize it must have been rather difficult for your p—for your people, having someone like me nearby. I've thought about leaving many times, and if you wish to evict me I will certainly go, but it's so bitterly cold outside this winter, and I…" How is he to explain what he's been doing and what he wants, especially in a room filled with normal people, when he must censor his words enough that no one sentence could potentially give away this pack?

"His name is Enjolras." Courfeyrac's hand brushes over Grantaire's, a gesture of comfort, of conciliation. "He is a fair leader. We are happy following him."

"Enjolras." Repeating the word slowly, Grantaire fits it to the blond wolf, to the fierce eyes. "I like that."

"I've noticed that you like him." Courfeyrac laughs, a bright, pleasant, pure sound of true amusement. There's a hesitancy to his expression again, though, an uncertainty behind the joy.

Grantaire resists the urge to growl as he quickly drops his head and his eyes again. The other wolf wouldn't understand that Grantaire's growl is directed at Grantaire alone, not a threat or a challenge or a sign of madness. Grantaire is subordinate. Courfeyrac is a dominant wolf. Grantaire will remember, and he will force his body to react appropriately, even if the instincts that should lead him to do so are broken beyond repair. "I take pleasure where I can, in beautiful places, in beautiful people. It's one of the things you learn, wandering as I have. Once I spent the better part of a day simply admiring a flower. I felt rather like one of those poets, you know, the romantic ones that are taught about in universities, forever mooning over this or that piece of nature. Granted, I had a bit of help in my distraction, I believe it was mainly absinthe but that could have been before I began my long affair with the Green Fairy. Ah, but you're not interested in hearing about me, and I'm boring you, aren't I?"

Shaking his head, Courfeyrac offers another gentle smile and a brush of his hand. The glaze that had been beginning to cover his eyes as Grantaire rambled disappears as though it had never been. "No. I'm actually quite interested in you, as are my friends."

"Truly?" Grantaire feels hope soar in his heart, a bright, fierce bird. It almost immediately crashes, burning in the memories of other pack's rejections, and he turns his eyes away from Courfeyrac. "But you won't once more of you see me. I'm not quite… normal."

"Very few people are actually normal." Courfeyrac leans closer, a conspirator. "Enjolras and the rest are very forgiving of… abnormalities in some areas, so long as your heart is true in others."

Grantaire stares into Courfeyrac's brown eyes, trying to read how much of what the man says and shows is true. It seems true. This wolf seems like the kind to tell the truth, and he hasn't reacted too badly so far to anything that Grantaire's said or done. Likely he hasn't noticed exactly how defective Grantaire is, but still… maybe…

No. Best not to hope, especially not when Courfeyrac made it clear that some normalcy would still be expected of him. "In what areas must I be _normal_ in order to be considered?"

"Not normal. It's really quite abnormal, actually. True is the word I use, and I think it's the fairest word. But if we're going to get into the actual haggling part of this, rather than the enticing, I believe you should come with me. Meet the rest. Then we can speak more freely."

Speak of things like pack and bonds and submission and dominance and their views on the humans without telling the humans that something else lurks beside them. Grantaire nods, standing slowly, gesturing for Courfeyrac to lead the way.

Foolish. This is foolish, and he's almost certainly going to regret it.

He doesn't know if he can trust this wolf. He doesn't know if he can trust this pack. He has only Courfeyrac's word that the pack is interested in speaking with him and not tearing him apart. True, he feels that Courfeyrac is being honest with him, but one thing wolves learned quickly from humans was how to lie. This wolf, so good at mimicking humanity, so jovial as he greets humans to either side as they make their way toward the back room of the Musain again… this wolf could be leading him into a trap. This wolf could be leading him to his death, or worse, to his maiming prior to being turned out into winter's loving embrace.

He doesn't allow himself to think that this wolf may be leading him to a pack that might accept him. It's too strange and foreign a concept. It would be a hope too easily crushed, and in the crushing Grantaire fears he would lose all that remains of his spirit.

Better to just focus on the alpha's blue eyes. He will throw himself on that wolf's mercy. He will prostrate himself, as is proper, and perhaps… perhaps…

Perhaps they will let him live.

It's as far as he allows his wandering, helpless hopes to get.

Somehow, though, it's far enough.


	4. Part Three: A Pack Apart

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing from Les Mis.

**Author's Note:** I am very sorry for how long it's been since I updated. There were a lot of real life troubles with my family, and I was having some doubts about life, the universe, and my writing. I plan on continuing both stories and finishing them, however. Hopefully people continue to enjoy!

_Part Four: A Pack Apart_

They're waiting for him.

All eyes turn to look at him when Courfeyrac leads him into the room. They don't inhale in unison, but he can see each wolf draw a deep breath, either closing their eyes or tilting their head or simply scrunching up their face in puzzlement as they determine as much about who he is as they can.

It doesn't take any instincts to cause his head to turn down, his eyes to drop away. That much concentrated attention is more than enough to do it.

What are they thinking? What does his scent—male, alone, no traces of mate or pack bonding present, more submissive than anyone else in the room—mean to them? Does it make them more or less interested in him as a pack member?

No. They aren't going to want him as a pack member. They—

"Everyone." Courfeyrac is grinning ear to ear, and Grantaire can practically see his tail swishing in long, even strokes despite his human form, an invitation to play, a sign of exuberance and glee. "This is Grantaire. He's the stray who's been borrowing a table in the café. He would like to make everyone's acquaintance and discuss whether or not he would be a good fit for our pack."

"I never said—" Grantaire breaks off in dismay, looking around at the sea of familiar faces—so familiar, he's been watching them so closely the last few weeks, but still strangers. He must be careful how he phrases this, to give no insult to these wolves while still getting his point across. "I am honored that you have consented to meet with me, but I wouldn't deign to affront your dignity by asking if you would be interested in my joining your pack."

"He looks like a rogue, but he speaks like a student." It's a short but well-muscled wolf who speaks, one with hair black as pitch that makes his bright green eyes stand out all the more. "Where've you spent the years since you left your birth-pack, stray?"

"Here and there." Grantaire grins, meeting the green-eyed wolf's gaze for a few seconds before remembering to keep his low. "It's really a much better way to live than most wolves give it credit for. The things I have seen, the people I have met, wolf and human and sometimes not quite either! I traveled through southern France for a while, trying a pack here and there. I strayed a bit into Spain once, but I found I missed our land too much and returned to France after a few months. I've been in Paris for most of the winter, wandering from place to place, trying to stay a step ahead of those who would… disapprove of my presence."

"What have you been living off?" It's a female wolf who asks, her brows drawn together. She's stocky, pretty but not beautiful, one whose features tend a bit more toward the human female than most of their kind. She still dresses in male clothes, and almost certainly passes as male in the human world. "If you've been packless since you left your birth pack, how have you made your way?"

"I was gifted by my birth pack with a rather… hefty financial sum when I left." It had been their way of assuaging guilt, his parent's way of attempting to keep him safe while he went about what everyone knew would be a difficult task. An impossible task, as it turned out, but he can't begrudge them their hope. "I work, when I find myself inclined to. I hunt, when I'm somewhere that is conducive to hunting. Otherwise, I live off my inheritance, if you will."

"There will be time enough for questions later, my friends." Courfeyrac makes the statement firmly, taking Grantaire by the arm. "Let us introduce ourselves first! Let us give him a chance to get a feel for us and our pack before we assault him for his life story. Now, Grantaire, would you prefer I work my way up or down the pack? Up would probably be best, saving the most… intimidating for last. In that case, allow me to introduce Jehan!"

The wolf in question is female, dressed in rather ill-fitting clothes that don't quite match. He raises his head as he considers Grantaire, leaning forward, and Grantaire realizes belatedly that even this low-ranked wolf has the smell of someone significantly higher-ranked than he is.

Courfeyrac talks as Jehan and Grantaire exchange silent greetings, Courfeyrac's hand staying on Grantaire's arm, whether to hold him back or offer him protection Grantaire isn't sure. It's impossible to read anything but joy from Courfeyrac's tone. "Jehan is a poet, rather well-respected in that regards by most humans. If you wish for a romantic who would happily sit and examine flowers with you, look no further!"

"Does he drink while examining flowers?" Grantaire directs the question to Courfeyrac, eyebrows raised questioningly.

"He can speak for himself." Jehan stands, reaching out to turn Grantaire's head to face him. "Are you planning on fighting me for position, if we invite you to join?"

"No!" Dropping his eyes, turning his head to expose his neck, Grantaire sighs in frustration. "No, Jehan. I'd be no threat to you. Read our scents. You're meant to be higher-ranked than me."

"Then why…" Jehan steps back, a furrow line between his brows. "Ah, well. If you mean no challenge, I accept your word. Now what had your question been? Right. I will drink, though not so much or so well or with as much… enthusiasm as some other members of the pack do."

"And do you spend much time examining flowers?" It's an inane question, could be read as mocking, but Grantaire thinks he puts enough good cheer and gentle humor into it to make it charming rather than impudent.

"So I am told." Jehan smiles, relaxing slightly, head held high. "I find pleasure in it, though, and through my poetry I am able to share that pleasure. And don't allow the others to mislead you. I may examine flowers, but I am no less a revolutionary for all that."

"Revolution?" Grantaire turns to look at Courfeyrac, head down. If he had his ears, they would have swiveled back to pin themselves to his head. Revolution means guns, humans, madness. Why would these wolves willingly bind themselves to that word? "What—"

"Later, later." Courfeyrac waves a hand as though it's a matter of little importance, dragging Grantaire around to face a different table. Pointing at another low-ranked wolf, this one male, small, blinking at Grantaire with hesitant, distrustful eyes, Courfeyrac smiles. "This is Joly. He is studying to be a doctor."

Grantaire bows to the smaller wolf, keeping his head down. It's easier than with Jehan. This wolf is skittish, nervous, uncertain of him, and Grantaire has never liked frightening anyone. Better to keep his head down than to scare the other wolf. Drawing a deep breath, Grantaire tries once again to sort out the mate-bond of this other wolf.

Frowning, Grantaire sneaks a sidelong glance at the man. He's sitting between two other wolves, one male, with only scant patches of brown hair on his head, the other the female who had asked how Grantaire was surviving. Joly smells of both of them, in equal portions, both their scents mingling with his in a way that Grantaire would normally read as a mate-bond. That can't be right, though. He must be reading something wrong. He must be too drunk to properly—

"You're right." Joly lays a hand on both of the wolves next to him, though they're both higher-ranking than he is. "I am bound to both of them. I suppose it's the easiest of our… unique characteristics for another to see."

"I…" Grantaire tilts his head, studying the other wolf intently before remembering to drop his eyes. "Well, then. Congratulations."

Silence grips the room, a silence during which no one even seems inclined to shift in their seats.

"That's it?" It's the mangy-looking wolf who asks the question. "That's all you have to say? Congratulations?"

"Well, yes." Grantaire shrugs, suddenly self-conscious. "It was your decision, wasn't it? I mean, the three of you?"

"Yes." The female wolf speaks slowly, eyeing the two lower-ranked males with a look of proprietary affection as she does. "It was a joint decision, on the part of all three of us, to attempt something like this."

"Bossuet and Musichetta." Courfeyrac introduces first the low-ranked male and then the slightly higher-ranked female. "Joly's mates, as you evidently noticed."

"It's rather hard not to notice." Scratching as his chin, Grantaire shrugs again. "I've no stake in it, though. Let them enjoy themselves as they like."

"If everyone were so mature in their outlook, Grantaire, life would be much easier for all." Musichetta smiles at him, though the same puzzled look that Courfeyrac had worn throughout most of his conversation with Grantaire lies behind the words.

"You do have an eye for people, Courfeyrac." Bossuet raises his glass to the more dominant wolf. "I don't know how you know who's going to throw a fit and who isn't, but I commend you for your insight."

"Do you have fleas?" Joly stares hard at Grantaire's chin, frowning.

Courfeyrac pulls Grantaire around again, turning him away from the trio as Bossuet and Musichetta lovingly descend on the less dominant wolf. "There's another pair you should meet—this is Feuilly, he slots between Joly and Bossuet, and his mate Monet, who is above Bossuet and below Musichetta."

The female wolf stands, raising her head, drawing a deep breath in through her nose, a classic greeting between wolves in safe places. The male stays in his seat, raising a glass in quiet greeting.

"Hello." Grantaire gives a tentative wave. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Likewise." The woman gives an imperious nod before sitting again.

The male wolf doesn't say anything, simply studying Grantaire with a frank, open curiosity that Grantaire isn't used to enduring. After a few seconds he finally speaks. "Were you human?"

"I… what?" Shaking his head, Grantaire gives a self-deprecating smile. "No. Despite my manners, I was born and raised in a normal pack."

"Ah. I just thought…" The wolf turns away, but not before Grantaire reads the disappointment on his face. "No matter."

"I have wished, sometimes, that I were born human. It would at least give me a reason for my deficits, for my failings, but such creatures are rare to the point of being mythological. A human, becoming a wolf? A human-wolf surviving to find other wolves, managing to find a pack that would welcome such a curious creature? Ah, but it would be fascinating to talk with one, if such a man existed! How different is it, to be human and then to be one of us? How much more precious does it make this life of ours? How much more harrowing and frightening and unintelligible?" Grantaire turns to Courfeyrac, to the others that he's been introduced to, excited at the prospect. He loves puzzles like these, abstract, intriguing, at the periphery of their culture. They are safe puzzles, simple riddles whose answer has no deep meaning or which possibly have no answer, and he knows more on the subjects than most wolves he meets. "How would such a feat even happen? How does one go about changing one's species? Is it true that a savaged human could become a wolf? There are so few humans attacked these days, though, and even fewer who survive when they are attacked! Surely, if it does happen, then there must be other ways."

Silence greets his words, a tentative, uncertain silence, and Grantaire remembers to bow his head. Glancing around the room, he finds most eyes fixed on Feuilly.

After a few seconds, Feuilly raises his head defiantly, staring straight at Grantaire in a challenge. "I was human. Until four years ago, I was an apprentice fan-maker. Then I… changed."

"Ah." Grantaire hesitates, keeping his head down, making himself as small as possible. "I hope that my zeal for the subject was not interpreted in the wrong way then, friend. I know there are some who hold ill will towards those who are not pack-born. I assure you, I am not one of them."

"I can tell." Feuilly raises his glass again, smiling slightly. "You spoke with passion. Not with compassion, true, but with an interest and a lack of pre-judgment that I find myself quite appreciative of. It's a matter we can discuss in the future, though, if you are truly interested in the subject."

"I assure you, I am." Grantaire smiles expansively at the red-haired wolf, meaning every word. He looks forward to discussing the basics of werewolf culture with a man who learned it second-hand.

Perhaps together they can find some explanation for Grantaire's own short-comings.

"Having met those two, there are really only two other pack members to make the acquaintance of." Courfeyrac guides him back to the table where Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta are sitting. Nodding at the emerald-eyed wolf, Courfeyrac grins. "This is Bahorel. He is Jehan's mate. He's a good man to have behind you in a fight. He's also frequently a reason you will be in a fight."

"Always so flattering, Courfeyrac." There's fondness in Bahorel's voice as he submits to the higher-ranked wolf, grinning at Grantaire all the time. "Don't let him intimidate you. If it's someone to drink with that you're looking for, I'll be your friend."

Grantaire smiles, drawing a deep breath and scenting out the other wolf. Bahorel's scent is different from the other wolves—different from any other wolf that Grantaire has ever scented. The wolf smells like a wolf, true, a dominant wolf, and there are traces of Jehan's scent and Bahorel's mate-bond to the submissive wolf, but there's something… else. Something wild, something green, something growing, and Grantaire can feel his body tighten in anticipation of a Change.

Shaking himself, Grantaire frowns in confusion at Bahorel. It's been quite some time since a Change tried to sneak up on him. He hasn't even had that much to drink, relatively speaking. Why…?

Bahorel grins, raising a glass to Grantaire. "You'll learn, if you stick around. All of us have something a bit special about us. We work together, though. That's the important thing."

"I've noticed." Grantaire hesitates, wanting to look behind him, wanting to look at the alpha. Not yet, though. He doesn't want to insult or annoy the man. "Not that you all have a bit of uniqueness, though I'm certain that's true, but that you work well together. I have very rarely seen a pack as happy and well-disciplined as this one."

"We thank you for the compliment! Though I think many would balk at calling us well-disciplined, both in this room and out of it. We have the discipline of shared purpose and beliefs, and the happiness of those doing what is right." Courfeyrac's grin is infectious, and Grantaire finds a smile tugging at his mouth as he allows the other wolf to turn him around and lead him to yet another table. "The last two members of our pack, then. Enjolras you will recognize; the glowering one is my mate, Combeferre."

Grantaire forces his eye to glance at Combeferre, his nose to sniff briefly at the other wolf's scent. Combeferre is male, powerful, as powerful as Courfeyrac and perhaps a bit more so. It's very difficult to tell, though it shouldn't be. There cannot be two wolves of the same rank in the same pack. The stress would be insurmountable, and for those two wolves to be mated, to lock themselves into a power-struggle for all time…

Grantaire can't bring himself to care, though. All he has eyes for is Enjolras, and he shrinks back, head down, neck exposed, smiling quietly as he basks in the radiance of the alpha's power.

Enjolras frowns at him, an expression of disapproval that strikes Grantaire's heart and jerks a low whine from his throat. Has he done something to offend? Does the alpha not approve of how he has acted? Has one of his ramblings caused affront that he missed?

"You don't submit like that to any of the others." Enjolras' voice is quiet, the deep, sonorous tone of authority. "Why do you cringe and fawn for me?"

It takes Grantaire a moment to find his voice, a situation he hasn't found himself in often. When finally he speaks, he keeps his response short, trying to be as unlikely to cause offense as possible. "Because I can."

Enjolras' frown deepens. "Explain."

"I was born… defective." Grantaire keeps his eyes fixed on the floor, his head down, submissive, almost pleading. This is the heart of the matter, the reason he will be turned away from any pack he tries to join. "I should be submissive. My scent tells others to expect submission. I have no desire to be dominant, no desire to lead a pack, and no desire to fight for position. What good would I be as a dominant wolf? I haven't the magic to hold a mate-bond, let alone to assist a pack. Yet I look alphas in the eye without a second's hesitation. I meet a wolf, I scent his position, and I forget to bow my head. I mean no insult by it. I mean no challenge! Yet my body gives challenge that my mind and heart would not, and no pack wishes for that kind of turmoil. But with you, Enjolras… with you I am normal. With you I see you, I scent you, I feel your power, and I act as I should! I fawn for you because you deserve it. I—"

"You don't know me." Enjolras frowns again. "You don't know my pack. I could be quite unworthy of your praise or obeisance."

"No." Shaking his head, Grantaire smiles. "I have watched you, these last few weeks. I have listened to you. I don't understand all of what you speak about, and I find it difficult to believe much of it, but I know that your pack reflects your words, and your words are kind. You deserve my obeisance, and I gladly give it."

Silence descends between them, a palpable, waiting silence.

Finally Courfeyrac speaks, his tone gentle. "He's done nothing worse than most wolves do on meeting you, Enjolras. Your presence is… impressive. If it strikes you harder with him than with others, I fear it is simply in contrast to his rather… unorthodox behavior with the rest of us."

"We are an unorthodox pack, in many ways." Combeferre murmurs the words, glancing between Enjolras and his mate. "Enjolras wants allies, not servants. If you were to join us, Grantaire, there would be expectations. There are many tasks we have set for ourselves."

"Tell me what you will, and I will do it!" Glancing up at Enjolras, at that stern, imposing expression, Grantaire fights the urge to sink down to the ground and beg. Were he in his wolf form he doesn't think he would be able to stop himself, to keep from rolling on his back and prostrating himself before this alpha.

Enjolras shakes his head. "I am not like most alphas, Grantaire. I will not order you to tasks that you do not believe in yourself. Every wolf in my pack is free to have their own thoughts, their own opinions. I prefer it that way. I am not infallible. If Jehan or Joly or Feuilly or any other wolf sees a way to improve on our plans, or a way to improve on our theories, let him speak. Every wolf has a voice. Rank should not be used to silence or strengthen those voices."

Again there is silence, broken tentatively by Grantaire after a few seconds too many have passed. "I am very good at talking."

Courfeyrac laughs, a bright, joyous, startled sound, and throws his arm over Grantaire's shoulders once more. His chin rubs the side of Grantaire's face, pleased, possessive, dominant. "Enjolras, how can you dismiss a skill such as that! Let him stay with us! Give him a week to see how the pack functions, to learn our ways and our beliefs, to decide if he shares them or not! Just think—a submissive who doesn't submit. Such a wolf was meant for a pack such as ours."

Enjolras hesitates, just a fraction of a second. Turning his eyes away from Courfeyrac and Grantaire, he studies the rest of the pack. "As I have said before, decisions such as this are not solely mine to make. What does the pack wish?"

There is a rush of sound, a susurrus that Grantaire finds hard to pick apart. Enjolras' eyes slide from one pack member to another, and the feeling of pack magic in the room intensifies.

Finally Enjolras turns to look at Grantaire again. A slight smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes are kind, inviting, having lost the distance and discontent that had been in them before. "If you wish, if you have not been put off by anything you have seen or heard so far, you may stay with us for a few days, Grantaire. We will discuss your potential inclusion in the pack once you have a better idea about what you would be including yourself in."

"Thank you!" Grantaire rushes forward, wishing to show his gratitude to Enjolras, and ends up standing awkwardly by the man's chair. If only this were somewhere safe to change! If only he could think of a human way to display all of the feelings swelling in his heart! If only he were better with words, with expressing what he truly means, rather than rambling from one point to another.

Enjolras stands, his hand reaching out to rest on Grantaire's shoulder. Grantaire leans forward, resting his weight against the alpha, breathing in his scent, basking in his power.

After a moment Enjolras' chin rubs against Grantaire's downturned head. The gesture is short, simple, something that any dominant wolf should do for a wolf showing subservience as strongly as Grantaire is.

It's the happiest moment Grantaire has had in years.

"Rest." Enjolras murmurs the words softly, gently. "You are welcome here. We will not turn you away for being what you are. And once that fear has faded, I would very much like to see _who_ you are."

_I am yours_.

He almost says the words, so content and happy he could die, drowning in pleasure and the scent of other wolves like a desert nomad suddenly thrust into the ocean.

Enjolras doesn't want that, though. So close to the alpha, so close to the pack, Grantaire can feel the sorrow, the frustration, the pity that color their thinking with regards to him.

He doesn't want Enjolras' pity.

He wants Enjolras' acceptance.

So he straightens, as much as he can, and whispers his thanks again before retreating back to the table where Jehan sits with Feuilly and Monet.

He cannot look Enjolras in the eyes, though that is what Enjolras wants, but perhaps he will be able find a place here anyway.

That simple thought is far more than he could have hoped for two hours ago, and it is more than enough to keep his spirits buoyed for the rest of the night.


	5. Part Four: A Place to Rest

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Les Miserables; the werewolf mythos in this is my own creation.

**Author's Note:** Thanks so much to everyone who left kind words! I'll be trying to update both stories once a week, "Dreamers" at the beginning of the week and "Believing" at the end. Hopefully people continue to enjoy! This part takes a brief hiatus from Les Amis to bring in a few other characters.

_Part Four: A Place to Rest_

The stray slips down the street, arms crossed over his chest, shivering. He has a coat, but the fabric is old, worn, and the winter's wind slices through it with a frigid vengeance.

He sneezes and stops, eyes darting up and down the dark boulevard. His pursuers don't seem to have noticed, though, or if they did they're wary enough of this new pack's territory that they aren't going to risk causing offense just to chase him.

This suits Marius just fine. He doesn't want to fight with the mangy beasts, and he certainly doesn't want to join their pack, so their leaving him alone is the best option available.

He would have appreciated their leaving him alone where he had been, in his small room where he hurt no one and did nothing to attract attention to the pack, but some wolves were far too high-strung about their territory.

It's dark, but by the light of the moon Marius can pick out what he needs to. The edges of everything are crystal-clear, as sharp or sharper than during the day; movement draws his eye, whether it's a forgotten piece of refuse skittering along the street, a hissing cat, or a carriage returning early or arriving late for some fete or another. This is a decent part of town, given the silence of the streets, and he hunkers down into his coat and continues on along the street. He hasn't smelled any of the wolves who marked this territory since he crossed into it. With any luck he won't smell them again for several days, and he can find someplace to stay and avoid other wolves.

What to do in the meantime, though? Sniffing forlornly at the diffuse scents of meals wafting from all the houses, Marius shakes his head. None of these people would offer him shelter. They wouldn't know what he is, no, but they'd see his poor clothing, how cold he is, perhaps catch a whiff of blood from where the pack scored his ankle, and assume him a monster of a different kind.

He needs shelter, though. He's going to freeze to death if he stays out in the open, in the cold, bearing the full force of the wind on his body. Even if he Changes, even if he trades his poor human clothes for his thick fur coat, he'll need somewhere protected from the wind to curl up.

His eyes have been idly tracing the lines of a wall, and he pauses in front of the gate. The garden beyond the gate is overgrown, beautiful even in the sleep of winter, somehow blending the touch of humans with the spice of the wild and making it work. The walls of the garden offer protection from the wind, and the lack of footprints tells him that few people, if any, venture into the enclosure.

It would make a good place to hunker down for the night, at least. Better than continuing to walk and bleed and freeze, and he reaches out to touch the bars tentatively. He'll need to find a way through them or over the wall—a way that doesn't attract too much attention, preferably. He's thinner in his human form, but his head is sleeker in his wolf form. Perhaps if he—

He's still debating what to do when one of the bars shies away from his hand with a sharp crack of splintering ice, sliding over to create an opening he can squeeze through without too much trouble.

Grinning, Marius dives into the garden and carefully replaces the bar in its usual position. Perhaps this garden is meant to be his, a gift from above in return for all the misery of the last few months. Perhaps he'll be able to stay in this place for longer than he has in others, protected by the humans and their walls from the annoyingly tenacious attention of his own kind.

Perhaps. And perhaps he will learn how to fly, and be the only flying wolf ever seen.

Still smiling to himself, Marius finds the least-windy corner of the garden. It's almost warm after the chill of the street, protected as it is from the buffeting wind and swirling snow. Crouching down, he takes a deep breath before struggling out of all his clothes as quickly as possible.

The loss of the heat that the clothing had provided wrings a whimper from his throat despite his best efforts, and he has to work to keep from panting in dismay. With shaking hands he folds the clothes, carefully, or as carefully as he can, before setting them in the branches of a bush, where they will hopefully avoid becoming water-logged.

They're the only clothes he has. If he wants to continue to walk among humans, he has to take good care of them.

His clothes offered what protection he can, Marius settles back with a sigh and allows the Change to wash over him.

It's fantastic.

There's no other thought in his mind, no capability for other thoughts. All of his being, all of his awareness is locked into the confines of his body—a body that is reshaping itself in tingling, shivering, agonizing, beautiful ways.

His fur grows in first, drowning out the bite of the wind, and he sighs in relief and delight as warmth begins to return to his body. His tail comes next, and he can feel it swishing in long, pleased strokes as he continues to change. His ears shift up; his legs shorten and his arms elongate; his jaw lengthens, stretches, his tongue lolling out in ecstasy, and he barely remembers to keep from howling. Inviting a pack here to kill him or maim him for invading their territory would be beyond foolish.

The Change leaves him stretched out on the ground, his tongue hanging out and his unfocused eyes turned to the sky. Bounding to his feet in one eager movement, he snaps at a mouthful of snow and tosses his head. Snow rains down around his ears, settles into his coat, but it doesn't matter. His fur is thick, healthy like the rest of him, and between that and the walls blocking the wind he's perfectly content now.

He mustn't make too much commotion, though. He must remember that he is an invader, a stray, one to be chased away. He must remember that he is pretending to be human, that he is acting human as often as possible.

He must play, just a little bit, jumping on shadows and creating miniature snow-storms with sweeps of his tail and tosses of his head, because he allows himself the release so infrequently.

He tells himself, when he's human, that he doesn't miss this. He tells himself that he doesn't miss pack magic, that he doesn't miss four legs, that he doesn't need any of it because he doesn't believe as other wolves believe.

It's harder to lie in this form, though, to himself or to others, so for a few minutes he doesn't even try.

He hears the door open and freezes. The scent of humans assaults his nostrils—two of them, no, three, stronger versions of the vestiges he had caught in the garden, and he slowly, gently eases his way back into the dead bushes, closer to the ground, closer to the wall.

Perhaps they haven't noticed him. Perhaps they simply wish to take a stroll through their garden, to see for themselves the beauty of the night.

He hopes so. He hopes he hasn't been foolish and given himself away before he even has a chance to enjoy the warmth, to rest, to recover from being chased from his last den. He hopes he won't have to abandon his clothes, because he really has no idea what he'll do then.

"Come inside, Cosette. You'll catch a cold standing in the snow." The voice that comes from inside the house is male, deep, full of the resonance of authority. If he were a wolf, this person would be high-ranked.

"I could have sworn I saw something, papa." The woman steps further out into the garden, turning in a full circle.

Marius doesn't get to see her face well. Her face is a mass of shadows and movement, a rapidly blinking eye, a curved cheek, a determined chin; picking out more than that would require more light and his human eyes.

He doesn't need to see her face, though. He catches her scent, and it roots him to the spot, drops his mouth open, brings all of his thoughts to a screeching halt.

She smells fantastic. She smells like sunlight, like spring, like fall, like water, like trees, like everything he has ever loved and like none of it. She smells human, too; there's no denying she smells like a human.

There's also no denying that he's drawn to her, and Marius feels a whine slip through his lips before he has time to stop it.

The woman turns sharply, toward him, her head moving, her eyes searching.

He should stay still. He should freeze, close his eyes, wait to move until she's turned away, and then flee even further into the shadows. Humans have awful vision at night. The likelihood of her seeing him is slim.

So why is he stepping forward? Why is he whining again, just a thin sound, a strained sound, barely loud enough to carry to her ears?

The woman starts, and her eyes slide down to meet his. She freezes, and her scent shifts, fills with fear and surprise.

He doesn't want her to be afraid. Not of him.

Moving slowly, he stretches his front legs out in front of him. His ears he keeps in a neutral position, neither pricked toward her in invitation or back against his head in submission, because he's not sure which would frighten her more. His head lowers, and he stares up at her, beseeching.

"Oh." The girl laughs, shaking her head, one hand moving to cover her heart.

"Cosette?" The man's voice comes again, closer.

"Don't worry, Father." Cosette smiles at Marius as she speaks, hand moving from her heart to wave at him tentatively. "I'm coming inside. It's just a dog."

"A dog?" A man steps out of the door, standing at the woman's side. His eyes scan the area that Cosette is watching, but Marius has already slunk back into the shadows, away from their view. "Even more reason to come inside. Being mauled by a hungry beast at this time of night, in this weather…"

"I don't think it wanted to hurt me." Cosette pulls her father back into the house, their voices fading. "It seemed friendly enough¸ wagging his tail, and as you said the night's bitter cold. Let the dog shelter in the garden for the night. It does us no harm, and him a kindness."

"If we let it stay once, it might come back again." The man's hesitancy shows in his voice. "I don't want you to find yourself sharing the garden with a stray dog unexpectedly."

"Just let him stay for the night, Father." Cosette's voice is pleading, cajoling. "Please?"

"All right, child." The man sighs, and the door closes, cutting off the rest of the conversation.

Marius heaves a deep sigh, settling down in the snow under the bush, his tail curling around to cover his nose. He'll need to leave early in the morning, to escape before the man comes to reclaim his territory. Thanks to the woman, though, he'll have a night to rest.

He tries not to think about how much he doesn't want to leave, how much he wants to talk with the girl who showed him kindness.

Just because she shows kindness to stray dogs doesn't mean she'll show any kindness to stray men.

He's seen enough people react to him in both forms to know that for the bitter truth it is.


	6. Part Five: A Difference of Opinion

_Part Five: A Difference of Opinion_

Grantaire forces his eyes away from Enjolras, down to the table that his hands are resting on until he can trust his eyes to stay on Bahorel, Jehan, Monet, and Feuilly rather than gazing beyond them. He may have managed to drag himself away from the alpha, from the siren call of Enjolras' power and the instincts that it resurrects so easily, but keeping his attention away from the alpha is another matter entirely. He will manage, though. He will interact with the rest of the pack. He will come to know them, get a feel for how they interact, and decide if he really is considering their offer of a place in their society.

Besides, it doesn't really matter where he is or where he looks. The entire pack hums with Enjolras' power, a steady, beautiful thrumming just below the level of hearing. The entire room smells of the pack, of safety, of surety, and since the pack-smell is based in part on Enjolras it means the entire room smells a little bit like him.

"You look somewhat stunned." Monet smiles as he speaks.

"He just met Enjolras." The quiet humor in Jehan's voice is unmistakable. "A face of beauty, a body honed to grace, a soul of sharp steel. If he wasn't stunned, I'd say there was something wrong with him."

"That was one of those Oriental poems, wasn't it?" Bahorel grimaces, shaking his head as he turns to Grantaire. "He's prone to poetry, unfortunately. It's much better when he's not speaking it as it comes into his head, though he does have a tendency to flatter our illustrious leader and the rest of us with his verses."

"It's not flattery if it's true." Jehan keeps his head low, but his eyes are angled upward to glance at Bahorel, and the corners of his mouth are turned up in an expression of contentment and joy. "You have the soul of the wild in you. Enjolras has the soul of the revolution. Using words to try to capture the flavor of those essences may be an unachievable task, but that doesn't make the effort any less worthy."

Grantaire stays quiet, gaze traveling between the four pack members sitting with him. The conversation has the familiarity of a well-visited topic, and all four wolves seem quite content with the situation.

Turning his attention from the group he's sitting with to the room at large, Grantaire tries to look at the pack and their den from an unbiased viewpoint. If he's really considering joining this pack, and he must admit to himself now that he wants to, then he should know what it will entail.

Enjolras sits at a table with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, the three of them bent over a handful of books and scattered papers. The three are lost in conversation with each other, their expressions showing eagerness, joy, determination. Even when Courfeyrac shakes his head emphatically and jabs a finger down at the paper Enjolras is writing on there is no hint of tension.

Many alphas would bite a subordinate who took a liberty such as that, showed with such unrestrained passion a disdain for anything the alpha was saying. Enjolras simply raises his eyebrows and turns to Combeferre, an expression that could almost be a faint smile gracing his face.

Bahorel clears his throat, and Grantaire gives a guilty start, turning his attention back to the four at his table. He will not be distracted by Enjolras. He will focus on the rest of the pack first, because they will be as important as Enjolras is in determining whether this will truly be a safe and secure place to call…

He can't even finish the thought, and a self-deprecating smile rises to Grantaire's face as he lifts his glass of wine in a silent toast to the other wolves. Their opinion of him will matter, as well, and he needs to start making an impression as more than a wonder-struck pup.

"You could join them." Bahorel's grin takes on a wicked edge. "They always welcome additional commentary on their plans. I'd recommend studying up on your knowledge of the great political activists and thinkers of the last two thousand years or so, though. If you need a shorter reading list, Enjolras is most fond of—"

"Bahorel, be kind." Jehan cuts in, laying a hand on Bahorel's arm. "He's still getting used to Enjolras, as I said."

"I think I should wait a bit before joining them in whatever endeavor they're planning." Giving another self-deprecating grin, Grantaire raises his glass in another toast. "Preferably I will wait until I can be articulate in front of him—them."

Keeping his eyes carefully away from Enjolras, Grantaire scans the rest of the pack's small den. The tables are well-used. There's little evidence of fur or claws having been present in the room, further proof that this isn't their primary den, that this is a place they have claimed as their own but that isn't as secure as a pack's primary den has to be. There's very little so far as decoration on the walls, but what there is brings Grantaire's thoughts screeching to a halt.

Setting his drink down slowly, he raises one hand to point at the map carefully pinned to the wall. "That's a map of the Republic."

Bahorel grins.

"Observation and tact are clearly not his strong points." Feuilly murmurs under his breath, but not quietly enough to keep Grantaire's better-than-human hearing from picking up the words.

Monet laughs, a rich, vibrant sound.

Jehan glares at the more dominant wolves, bringing their laughter and soft comments to a quick close. Turning to Grantaire, his expression softens and he nods gravely. "It is."

"That could mean trouble for you." Grantaire frowns between the four wolves, not certain where to focus his concerns. "I know this is one of your places, but still, to brandish beliefs that the humans have been killing over for the last three decades…"

"It's what we believe in." Bahorel's smile has faded, replaced by a mask of solid, unwavering determination. "It's what our pack's fighting for."

"But—I don't…" Grantaire stumbles to a halt, frowning. "But it's… _human_."

"Are we not human, then?" Feuilly raises his eyebrows, taking a slow drink while he studies Grantaire.

"Well… I mean, we look like them for about half the time, but…" Grantaire shrugs hopelessly, looking to the other natural-born wolves. "We're Children of the Pack. We're _werewolves_." The human word feels strange in his mouth, but perhaps it will mean more to this impossible wolf. "We aren't human, no, and thus the affairs of humans aren't our affairs except where they threaten our existence."

"Tyranny threatens the existence of everyone who lives under it, be they human or something… more." Feuilly's stare is icy cold, the hint of a growl in his voice. "I will not stop caring about the people I share the world with simply because I have become something… something…"

"It's all right, love." Monet moves so that he's pressed against Feuilly's side, the female wolf's head rubbing against Feuilly's in a gesture of comfort. His eyes meet Grantaire's, and he remembers to lower his head in deference to the two higher-ranked wolves. "He's a stray. He doesn't understand."

"I understand a great deal." Grantaire can't help but raise his eyes to meet Monet's. "I think I understand more about humans than most natural-born wolves would, having lived in their company for the last several years. I understand that they change governments like they change clothes, that they fight over who will be dominant as fiercely as any wolf does, that their packs have grown so large they have become unwieldy and unkind, and that they will happily shed blood in the name of whatever alpha they find most palatable. I understand that if they knew what we were, they would most likely slaughter us all. I understand that their problems have been several centuries in the making, and that all of their attempts to correct them in the last few decades have resulted in even worse problems. I…"

Grantaire pauses, face warm, eyes dropping down to the table again as he registers the looks the other four wolves are favoring him with.

"Yes?" Bahorel gives the prompt, sounding almost amused. "Do continue."

"I seem to have lost my train of thought." Grantaire mumbles the words, head still down, fists clenched. Why did he have to do that? Why did he start speaking and not stop? Insulting these wolves about something that they obviously care about, when he really doesn't have much knowledge of the topic or caring either way, was not what he set out to do.

"I'd say it's rather you had several trains of thought that became a tangled mess. It's a rather beautiful political mess, though, entangling our species' rather taciturn and difficult relationship with humans with their own difficult and brutal relationships with each other. There's certainly a good thesis in there somewhere." Bahorel drains his glass in a few swift gulps before setting it firmly on the table. "I'm also quite certain it's not one that we agree with."

"Try making an argument one point at a time, Grantaire, and we'll try to share our beliefs with you." Jehan speaks gently but with no less force or determination than Bahorel. "Perhaps we can come to some sort of understanding."

Grantaire hesitates. "And if we don't come to an understanding… what happens? You'll refuse to allow me entry to the pack?"

Feuilly shakes his head, frowning in annoyance. "Your entry to the pack and our politics aren't the same thing, stray. They may be entangled, slightly, but only in so far as I'm sure you wouldn't want to be in a group that endangers itself for a cause you don't believe in."

Grantaire says nothing, trying to keep his expression neutral. Normally he would agree. Normally he would say having anything to do with buying trouble, with getting involved in the human's revolutions, was something he didn't want. He can still feel the weight of Enjolras' power, though. He can still hear the echoing silence of the words he won't let himself think—_home_, _pack_, _safety_—and he isn't sure, anymore, if he'd really willingly turn his back on them because of something as petty and _human_ as politics.

"What do you think of humans, Grantaire?" Monet asks the question, still leaning against Feuilly.

"I think…" Grantaire hesitates, eyes sliding over Feuilly without actually settling on the other wolf. "I think they're a great deal like us. I think they're capable of greatness and compassion but more often could be said to be petty or cruel or brutal."

"Compassion…" Jehan fixes Grantaire with a bemused look. "That's not a word I've heard many of the Pack use with such reverence. Loyalty, certainly, and love, but compassion is different than either. Compassion is caring for the _other_, for the one not self, not Pack, and that is a concept that many of our people find… difficult."

"At one point, maybe." Grantaire shifts uncomfortably, frowning as he meets Jehan's gaze. "Not for the last two hundred years or so, though. Compassion is something that extends to all wolves, to all Pack members, be they of your pack or not, because we need to stand together against…"

Feuilly smiles wryly. "Against the humans?"

Grantaire doesn't really need Bahorel's hand on his head to guide him in dropping his gaze, his shoulders, showing proper obeisance to the more dominant wolves. It doesn't bother him, though, to have the reminder. "They slaughtered our kind, along with any others that they determined were _different_, were _heretics_. Loyalty to our species has become as much a part of Pack thinking as loyalty to ones own pack-mates."

"Meaning that our people are capable of learning." Monet makes the assertion, tipping his chair back. "Our people are capable of extending compassion to others that our instincts don't dictate. If we can love and defend other wolves simply for being Pack, why can't we extend the same courtesy to humans? We are all sentient, sapient creatures. We share the same Earth. We share the same cities. We breathe the same air, and suffer under the same catastrophes."

"They've tried to exterminate us every time they've found some of our kind." Grantaire shrugs his shoulders. "It's difficult to have compassion for someone who has no compassion for you."

"I'd say that's the very definition of compassion, actually." Jehan's hand tousles Grantaire's hair, a gesture of fondness, of reassurance from a higher-ranked wolf to a lower one. "Besides, they attack us because they fear us, just as we hide from them because we fear them. If there were, instead of fear, understanding; if there were camaraderie instead of division; if there was education instead of myth, imagine what kind of progress could be made."

"So you're potentially risking your lives for these human rebellions in order to bring understanding?" Grantaire suddenly sits straight in his chair, head thrown back, all pretense at submission gone. "You're actually considering _telling_ humans what we are?"

"Not right now." Bahorel reaches over again and tilts Grantaire's head down, his hand firm but not rough. "We're not fools. We'll educate people when they're ready, make sure that revealing ourselves won't lead to a bloodbath. And it's not _just_ to win ourselves allies that we speak of revolution and rights. People have a right to a government that represents and supports them. People have a right to choose their leaders, not have them thrust upon them in the name of some divine right."

Grantaire blinks, frowning down at the table in confusion. "You really believe that? Despite how the Pack works?"

"It really doesn't contradict how the Pack works." Patting his hand gently, Monet offers him a comforting smile.

"I'm fairly certain it does. The Pack is like the monarchy, with the alpha as the king and everyone slotting into place beneath him."

"No." Feuilly shakes his head. "If you think in very general terms, I suppose it seems that way. But you said the most important argument against that in your rant. Werewolves have alphas, yes, but we have no central government. We have small packs, and wolves choose their own pack. Wolves choose their alpha, and the alpha chooses the wolves in his pack. The monarchy is, instead, imposed upon people—upon the Pack, though I know most wolves claim to have no caring or concerns about who leads the humans. No human can choose a different king, not without giving up their family, their home, their livelihood."

"And having people choose and change their alpha would be better?" Grantaire raises his eyebrows, the skepticism clear in his voice. "People have no way of telling who has power and who doesn't. We can smell who should be an alpha, who has the power to hold a pack together. All humans have is words, and many of them aren't even terribly good with those. How are they going to find people to lead them, and who's to say that the ones they choose won't be worse than the ones they have?"

"It can't get much worse, Grantaire." Jehan speaks slowly. "People are dying. Children starve in the street. Women sell themselves in desperation. Men search for work and find nothing, or worse, work and are given virtually nothing for it. And their alphas, the ones who claim they are given the divine right to lead them, do nothing, staying in their world of opulence, occasionally giving murmurs of sorrow for their pack-mates dying in the cold. The winter is not just bitter for strays. And how much worse to be a human freezing, to have someone who claims to be your alpha and cares little for your well-being or, worse, blames you for freezing while he holds all the firewood!"

"Men are capable of recognizing good leaders." Feuilly glances at Enjolras, and Grantaire barely manages to keep himself from following suit. "Humans may not scent power, but they can sense it in their own ways. And they respond well to compassion, and they can be educated to make even better choices than the ones that their hearts see."

"The last time the humans tried a republic, the streets ran red with blood, and our people cowered for fear that we would be discovered and add Pack blood as a spice to the massacre." Grantaire doesn't remember it, but every wolf born to their generation has been told of the fear, of the confusion, of the hesitancy to do anything and the desperate measures taken to protect Pack homes when the Change was unavoidable.

"What happened before was regrettable. Given the right leaders and the right timing, though, we could keep something like that from happening again." Bahorel, too, glances at Enjolras, a fond smile sliding across his features. "We don't intend to die, Grantaire. I've no interest in being a martyr, or in making any other men into martyrs. It may still happen, true, but I would much prefer to see the new world that I fight for."

"We refuse, however, to be ashamed of our beliefs. Hence the map." Jehan gestures toward the object that had sparked the whole debate. A sly smile touches the other man's mouth. "Besides, a hint of danger makes life that much more exciting and worthwhile to experience, doesn't it?"

"While the excitement part is undeniably true, the worthwhile is something that could be debated." Grantaire smiles, studying the other four wolves again. "Not tonight, though. I fear I'm outmatched in any debate when there are four of you to one of me. I also suspect that you've had much more time to formulate your thoughts and theories on the subject than I have. Perhaps another night?"

It's a bold statement. It assumes there will be another night. It assumes the pack will keep him with them, for a little bit, at least.

It earns laughter and smiles and a flurry of hands on his head, arms around his shoulder. He doesn't care that they tilt his head down, placing him in a position of submission, making his stance align with his scent.

They listened to him.

They cared about what he said.

They're gentle when they correct him, seeming more amused or bemused than angered by his oddities.

When Enjolras calls the pack to order later in the evening, suggesting that they go home, Grantaire is given barely a moment to hesitate before Jehan and Bahorel each take one of his arms, dragging him along with the pack. He will sleep with the pack, in their den, in the place that they call home. He will have a chance to Change in safety if he wishes, to stretch legs that haven't seen nearly enough work the last few weeks.

It will make it more dangerous for him if they decide, later, that they don't want him. They may decide it's too dangerous to simply turn him loose, that his knowledge of them is too exact. It would be wiser for him to turn them down, to pull away, to make an excuse.

He doesn't even try, because it doesn't matter anymore.

If they will have him, he will join this pack, no matter how strange and incomprehensible their ideals.

If they won't have him, if they decide that they don't want him after giving him this taste of companionship and belonging… then their potential desire to kill him won't really make all that big a difference, in the end.


	7. Part Six: A Safe Place

**Author's Note:** This chapter is fairly tame. The worst thing is nudity, which isn't described in great detail. I hope that people are continuing to read and enjoy!

_Part Six: A Safe Place_

Grantaire finds himself at the center of the troupe of wolves, Jehan on one side and Bahorel on the other. Enjolras leads the way, as is fitting, and the rest of the pack follows with a joyful step.

It almost doesn't matter that they lead him to their den. The streets are too complicated, the night too filled with the scents and sounds of the pack and those they pass for him to properly focus on any of it. He's spent too long alone these past weeks, too long without a pack before that. Even ignoring his deficits, he's a poor example for any wolf, too stunned to do more than gaze vaguely around as they travel.

The pack's den is a house, a boarding-house by the looks of it. The two-story building sprawls in its lot, the gate abutting the street open. Trees push out of the snow, their black branches clawing at the open air in seeming desperation.

No lights are on in the house, and Grantaire stands perfectly still once he's been ushered inside, trying to give his eyes a chance to adjust once the door is closed behind him. He can hear other members of the pack stretching, sighing, even the distinctive rustling of clothes being discarded, but all he can see are shadows and blacker shadows.

Just when his eyes are starting to adjust, the fire flares to life and a lamp is lit. Blinking against the sudden light, Grantaire finds himself still surrounded by the pack. Some have already shifted to wolf form, and they sit stoically next to their still-human brethren, eyes fixed on Enjolras.

Enjolras turns to face the pack, his blond hair glinting an almost blood-red in the low light of the lamp. "We're home. Do as you like for the evening. Take whatever form you like, but no howling."

The last words are filled with power, and a collective sigh wrings itself from the pack. Grantaire finds his own throat closing on a disappointed whimper, but the distress gets lost in the sheer confusion of feeling the alpha's power close around him.

He isn't pack yet. Enjolras' commands shouldn't have such weight for him.

He really doesn't mind that they do, though.

"Really, Enjolras, _must_ you give us the same commands every evening?" Courfeyrac sighs heavily, leaning against Combeferre's arm as though the other wolf were a wall. "Doesn't it get tedious?"

"Pack magic to fight pack instincts." Enjolras' eyebrows arch. "Or would you prefer we try to explain to the neighbors why we've a pack of dogs in the house? They already think it odd enough to have so many young men attempting to run a house by themselves."

"I've said we could hire a housekeeper for during the day, but you seem to get some perverse pleasure out of sweeping the floor."

"It's relaxing. It gives me a chance to think in peace, which is sometimes in short supply around here. I'm sure you'd know nothing about that, though." Clapping the other man on the shoulder, Enjolras offers a slight smile to take any potential sting out of the words. "Besides, we've been over this. Hiring a housekeeper, even for the daytime, would stress the pack more than it would help us. We need this place to be ours, to be _safe_, and at the moment the only way it can be safe is if we keep it to ourselves."

"I know." Courfeyrac nuzzles his face against Combeferre's arm. "I _know_, Enjolras, and I know you grant us more freedom than many city alphas can, but… sometimes I wish the revolution was already over. Sometimes I wish we were free to simply be _ourselves_, to Change when we wish, to sing when we wish, to embrace the wolf with as much abandon as we do the human side of our natures."

"That's something that can't happen as long as we're in the city." Enjolras wraps his arms around the lower-ranked wolf, pressing their heads together. "I know sometimes it irks you, Courfeyrac, and I will change it as soon as I can—"

"_We_ will." Combeferre finally speaks, ruffling his mate's hair and gently butting his head against his alpha's shoulder. "We'll win our freedom along with the humans'. Until then, we'll do what we need to stay safe and stay alive."

"Besides, Changing outside when it's this cold isn't terribly fun, anyway. Without clothing, it's too cold; with clothing, well, getting out of human clothing once you're wolf-shaped without destroying it is an art form I've yet to manage, and not having clothes when you wish to Change back is usually quite awkward."

Silence descends after Grantaire speaks, and he finds himself studying the floor, wondering if he's broken some unspoken pack taboo. It's clear that the three higher-ranked wolves have a bond all their own, but surely they don't mind his speaking up since they had to have seen him standing in the entryway the whole time.

"A fair observation, and true. We must keep him, Enjolras, if only to have such bold statements of bald fact in the future." Courfeyrac's rueful laugh breaks the stillness, and the brown-haired wolf manages to bound from his position between Enjolras and Combeferre to Grantaire's side between one breath and the next. "And we freely admit that our humble abode, though free from wind, isn't much warmer than the outside until we've had the fire going a bit longer, so if you wish to Change, feel free to. There are empty rooms if you desire privacy. If you desire to stay with some of the Pack, though, I'm sure they'd all be happy welcome you and offer you some companionship."

Grantaire suddenly finds himself self-conscious, standing still in the entryway while the rest of the pack has dispersed. Only the trio of high-ranked wolves remains, watching him, Combeferre with restrained uncertainty, Courfeyrac with tail-wagging enthusiasm, and Enjolras with curiosity.

It's that last which loosens his tongue and allows him to speak again. If Enjolras is curious about him, he must do more than stand and appear to be a love-struck pup. Lowering his head, he takes a step further into the house, closer to Enjolras. "I would like to stay with the Pack, if you will allow it."

"It's not for me to say who wants you with them for the evening." Enjolras' voice is even, not chastising, but Grantaire finds himself lowering his head further anyway. "Each of the Pack has their own room; we'll assign one to you, as well. Oftentimes Pack members share rooms, though, and usually there's a handful of wolves by the fire."

"It's where Enjolras likes to sleep, when he finally sleeps." Courfeyrac whispers the words in Grantaire's ear. "At least when we haven't been too infuriating."

"We can hear you, you know." Leaning back against the stair railing, Combeferre shakes his head at his mate. "You are in quite the mood tonight, aren't you?"

"I'm happy." Courfeyrac speaks simply, bluntly, and the truth of his words is written in his body language and in his smell.

"Then you'll be happy to show him around, right?" Combeferre asks.

"I can do that." Grabbing Grantaire's arm, Courfeyrac drags him toward the stairs. "I'll catch up with you two once I have him settled in."

Grantaire doesn't have time to protest before they're up the stairs and Courfeyrac is throwing open doors.

"This is Bahorel's room." It's the first door, the one closest to the stairs. Clothing is scattered haphazardly across the floor, and a sheathed sword rests against the wall. A handful of potted plants perch on the floor, on a stool, on the window ledge, and, oddly, on the pillow, their greenery looking far healthier than anything normally would this far into the winter. "He's a bit territorial, so I'd ask before entering."

The next door is already half-open, but Courfeyrac throws it the rest of the way open. Screens, paints, canvasses, and fans are littered around the room. "Feuilly's room. He experiments here, though he does most of his work actually at work. He gets very upset if there are multi-colored footprints around the house, and he doesn't appreciate the beauty of tail-brush art, so be careful when walking through his room."

"He paints?" Grantaire feels a familiar itch in his hands as he stares at the paints, inhales the scents that go with artwork. It's been months—no, over a year now since he's managed to sit and sketch, let alone paint. Perhaps, if Feuilly doesn't mind…

"He does." There's a gentleness to Courfeyrac's grip as he tugs Grantaire toward the next room, an understanding in his eyes that makes Grantaire's cheeks heat. "I'm sure he'd be thrilled to talk with another artist. His art is largely for profit, of course. He's one of the ones who actually makes money rather than spending it, but he also has an eye for the finer things in life, though he can be a bit gruff about it."

"I shall have to talk with him." They would have a great deal to talk about, between painting and humans and how complicated it had been to become a pack member, and Grantaire is suddenly overwhelmed at the prospect. Shaking off the feeling, he pauses at the next open doorway.

Bossuet looks up from where he is crouched on the floor, his fingers buried in Joly's belly fur. Joly's head lolls to the side, and he blinks upside-down eyes at Grantaire and Courfeyrac even as his tail continues to wave happily. Smiling down at his mate, Bossuet speaks. "Giving the grand tour, Courfeyrac?"

"I am." Courfeyrac walks boldly into the room, crouching down to join in the scratching of Joly's chest and stomach. The wolf's tail picks up speed, swishing across the floor in mad streaks. "As you can see, this is Bossuet and Joly's room. They were offered separate rooms, but they seemed to inevitably end up back together due to one calamity or another, so we eventually stopped fighting fate. So far this room has been only mildly damaged by water and had the window broken once. It's doing quite well."

Grantaire frowns, wondering what the room doing poorly would require if broken windows counted as doing well. Before he can think of anything to say, Joly shivers, shifting from his wolf to his human form. Scuttling over to where his clothes are, the man hastily dresses. "You shouldn't tease Bossuet about his bad luck, Courfeyrac."

"Why ever not?" Courfeyrac reaches over to rub Bossuet's shoulders. "The pack deals with the disasters that seem to follow him. Asking us not to comment on them would be like asking us not to comment on the weather. Besides, none of us blame him for what happens. You understand that, right?"

"We do." Musichetta's voice comes from behind Grantaire, and he takes a quick step into the room to allow the other wolf to enter. "Still, we refrain from calling you a bright-eyed fop who is more comfortable with the humans than a proper wolf should be. You could return the favor by refraining from mentioning Lesgle's… poor luck."

Lesgle stands hastily, moving to Musichetta's side. "Since I don't mind, and even tend to joke about it myself, I see no reason for Courfeyrac to not jest about it."

Joly joins Bossuet on Musichetta's other side, and the higher-ranked wolf places an arm around each of the males. "I know you don't mean anything by it, Courfeyrac. I'm just protective of my mates still."

"I know." Courfeyrac ruffles Musichetta's hair. His smile as he looks at each of the lower-ranked wolves is gentle. "But you're safe here. You're all safe here. So there's no need to fight amongst ourselves."

Grantaire blinks. That was a fight? Really? In other packs a wolf of Courfeyrac's position might have badly bitten a wolf like Joly or Musichetta for such blatant insubordination. A wolf in Joly or Bossuet's or Musichetta's position wouldn't have spoken up at all, most times, and instead just let the high-ranked one have his sport.

Not that other packs were _always_ violent. The best packs weren't, the ones that wolves sought to enter, and perhaps it's just been too long since he even dared to approach one of those packs. Has he simply forgotten how kind pack-mates can be to each other?

Musichetta's hand settles gently on Grantaire's shoulder; Courfeyrac's right hand presses his head down into a submission posture while his left arm goes around Grantaire's shoulders. Musichetta is the one who speaks. "I'm sorry, stray. There's no need for worry or fear. We speak plainly in our pack, and if Courfeyrac and I were going to fight it would have been months ago."

"True enough." Courfeyrac's cheerful agreement rumbles against Grantaire's ear. "You've been away from proper Pack culture for a while, haven't you?"

"Yes." The word comes out more strangled than he intended, more pathetic, and Grantaire finds his hands clenched tight, one on Musichetta's arm, one on Courfeyrac's. "I've… been alone for longer than I think I should have been."

Courfeyrac tightens his hold, and Grantaire closes his eyes. He doesn't see Joly and Bossuet move to join their huddle, but he feels their warmth, scents them, their comfort here, their pleasure at being with their pack, their joy at being with their mates, and for a long moment he just basks in the sense of Pack and rightness that comes with it.

In the scent of Enjolras that runs throughout the pack, even when the alpha isn't there, the thread of power that first drew him to these people, and he will need to be worthy of this pack.

He will need to be worthy of Enjolras.

Squaring his shoulders but keeping his head down, submissive but determined, he releases his hold on the other wolves. They move away from him easily, as though nothing of import has happened, and Courfeyrac gestures toward the door. "Shall we continue the tour?"

Grantaire simply nods, not trusting his voice, and allows Courfeyrac to lead him out.

XXX

Musichetta's room is next to Joly and Bossuet's. It's a pretty room, with more decoration than most of the other rooms have had. It's also neater, all the clothes carefully folded or hanging in the wardrobe. Jehan's room is across from hers, and Grantaire is certain that he's never seen so many books and oddities packed into a single space before. His hands reach for one of the books, but he doesn't dare to actually touch anything, wary of causing an avalanche. There isn't really time, anyway, Courfeyrac's arm tugging him forward to the last room.

The room is simply furnished, a single wide bed with white sheets that would be comfortable enough to curl up on in either human or wolf form, a desk, and a wardrobe making up the furniture. No dust or fur is present on the floor, and though the pack-smell in the room is as strong as the rest of the house there's no single scent or group of scents that stands out as there have been in the other rooms.

"Would this be acceptable as a place for you to stay?" Courfeyrac lounges in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest.

"I… yes." Grantaire turns to face the other wolf. It's really quite unfair how often this pack is rendering him tongue-tied. Speaking is the one thing he has always been good at, for better or for worse. "This would be fantastic, if you're truly offering it."

"We are, and it's yours for the duration of your stay with us." Courfeyrac's smile is gentle again, with just a slightly self-satisfied edge. "However long or short that turns out to be."

"I want to stay." Grantaire closes his eyes, drawing in a deep breath, sorting once more through the scent of the pack. Enjolras, sharp and determined, the thread that ties everything together; Combeferre's scent, tied around that, less bright but no less strong; Courfeyrac's scent, shining and thrumming; Bahorel, fierceness and blood and life, so brightly filled with life; the rest of the pack, all bound together in Enjolras' magic, and he wants his scent added to it. He wants to know what note he would add to their magic, what spice Enjolras would twist from his essence to tie into this strange, beautiful, foolish collection of people. "I will do whatever you require, if he'll let me stay."

Courfeyrac's smile fades as he considers Grantaire. "He will. If it's what you truly want, if you're no danger to the pack, he will accept you. But don't waste these days he's granted you. Truly be sure you can stand with us, because what we desire is not safe."

A low laugh forces its way out of Grantaire's throat. "Living isn't safe, Courfeyrac. Being packless isn't safe. Being one of _us_ isn't safe. Hell, even being human wouldn't be safe right now. If you've got your way, even being King wouldn't make one safe."

"There are different kinds of danger, though." Fire burns in Courfeyrac's eyes. "We will be free, Grantaire. I will be able to be myself without fear of reprisal, and if I have to shed blood to have that freedom, so be it. Even if the blood is my own, I will pay it readily."

"And if it's your packs' blood? Your mate's blood? Your subordinate's blood?" Grantaire faces Courfeyrac squarely, his head high. "Would you pay with Combeferre's blood or… or Enjolras' in order to sing more freely?"

"I wouldn't have to." A shadow crosses Courfeyrac's face, sorrow and love, an old grief. A grief that hasn't happened, perhaps, a sorrow imagined but not yet come to pass. "They'll gladly pay it themselves. All I can do is stand with them and add my voice, my skills, my strength to theirs. If you would stay with us, you will need to find the strength to do so as well."

"All he'd have to do is order me to, and I'd have no choice." It's a bald statement of truth again, but something that needs to be said. "With how strong he is, Courfeyrac, he could order other alphas. He does, holding you and Combeferre at his side. If you wish to change our people, why don't you—"

"Force them to? Make them stand with us?" Courfeyrac tilts his head to the side. "Force the humans to accept us, as well? He might be able to do it, Grantaire. He could certainly control more wolves if he wished to. Maybe he could even control humans. But what then? Is he never to sleep? Is he never to rest? Is he never to die, for fear that anything gained in blood will be lost the same way?"

There is nothing Grantaire can say to that, so he allows his eyes to fall away, purposefully showing an obeisance that his body doesn't feel.

"It also misses the most important part." Courfeyrac's hand cups his chin, brings his eyes back up to meet the higher-ranked wolf's gaze evenly. It is not something many wolves would do, not willingly, and Grantaire can feel Courfeyrac shiver as he fights his own instincts. "He wouldn't do it, Grantaire. He won't force our people. He won't force the humans. He will fight for us, and he will die for us, but he won't control us. It's _why_ Combeferre and I can follow him. Because we can, not because we are forced to. Because we believe in him."

"I believe in him." Grantaire whispers the words.

"No." Shaking his head, Courfeyrac releases Grantaire, reaching over a moment later to gently push Grantaire's head down to a subordinate's position. "You're in awe of him. But you don't believe in him. You can't. You haven't truly thought about what he says, what he stands for. You don't love him, because you don't know him. That's why these days are important, Grantaire. When you ask the pack to accept you, make sure that it's truly what you want. If you don't…"

"You'll kill me?"

"No." Courfeyrac speaks after a moment, his words soft and bemused. "I would say we'll send you away, but I fear that might be worse than killing you. I don't know what I'll do, stray, other than have to tell Combeferre he was right, and that can be an incredibly irksome thing. So listen, and learn, and I pray to the white moon and the black night that you'll find a spark of the revolution in your heart."

Grantaire raises his head again, meeting Courfeyrac's gaze fleetingly, showing his difference without actively challenging the higher-ranked wolf. "I will be worthy of your pack and your trust, Courfeyrac. Not just for his sake. Approaching me, offering me this… it was a kindness. And one I suspect I owe to you."

It's Courfeyrac who looks away, the higher-ranked wolf pacing in a tight circle to save his dominant stance. "It was nothing. I couldn't very well allow you to keep sitting there, watching us."

"You could have. You could have done worse." He refuses to let his mind wander to other possibilities, other times. "But you didn't. You were kind. Even if Enjolras were not here, even if it was only you and the others that I have talked with, Bahorel and Jehan and Monet and Feuilly, I think I would want to be a part of this pack."

"I am very glad to hear that, Grantaire." Courfeyrac's smile is bright and pleased again, the wolf clearly proud of his pack and happy with Grantaire's answer. "Very glad indeed. Now, if you wish to Change or to rest here, feel free to. Otherwise, I'll show you around downstairs."

XXX

Grantaire prepares to shift to his wolf form, trying not to be self-conscious about Courfeyrac standing in the doorway. He spent his entire childhood Changing naked in front of other wolves. Nudity is no taboo among their people, and it's one thing he never expected or wanted to pick up from the humans.

Changing in front of humans would be disastrous, though, and he's spent the last few years ensuring he was alone before allowing the power to ripple through his body. Perhaps it's simply that lingering fear and hesitancy that makes Changing in front of Courfeyrac difficult.

"I could leave, if you want." Courfeyrac makes the offer conversationally, studying his nails. "Or Change, as well. The tour will be less vocal then, but I'd certainly not have a problem running around on four legs."

"Whatever you prefer." Grantaire mumbles the words through gritted teeth. Changing shouldn't be difficult. It had been just on the edge of happening earlier in the evening, when he first met Bahorel.

Thinking of the wolf brings to mind his scent, the odd green of his eyes, and between one breath and the next Grantaire feels the Change sweep over his body. Fur sprouts in a riot from his cold flesh, trapping and warming the air within seconds so that the bite of the chilly night fades away. His bones rearrange themselves with sharp cracks, growing, shrinking, twisting, and it should be painful but there's too much exhilaration for it to hurt. Falling forward onto four legs, Grantaire stretches and feels his tail waving happily behind him.

He lowers it as soon as he notices how high it is, though he allows it to continue to wag as he looks over at Courfeyrac.

The other wolf has shed his clothing, revealing a long, lithe, female body. Like all of their people, Courfeyrac is flat-chested, and he has the lean, ropy muscle of a wolf who is trained to fight and run. Closing his eyes, Courfeyrac allows the Change to roll over him, and a bare second later a female wolf bounds happily up to Grantaire.

They play. Grantaire can't help it. He hasn't been on four legs with another wolf in almost two years, and having Courfeyrac there play bowing to him is more than he can resist. They race down the hallway, Courfeyrac chasing Grantaire first before Grantaire rounds on the female wolf and chases her back down the hall. They yip, quiet sounds of pleasure that won't carry far, any true howls or cries held back by the alpha's command.

The one who will be his alpha, and Grantaire rolls over in happy submission as Courfeyrac bowls him onto his back and stands above him. These wolves will be his pack, and he will be happy here.

The tour of the downstairs is swift, a darting in and out of rooms and between the legs of other wolves. There's no need for Courfeyrac to tell him who lives where. The richness of the pack's scent is enhanced in wolf form, his vision sharper if colors lost, and Grantaire trots behind Courfeyrac as the other wolf bounds from room to room. They start with Combeferre's room, Courfeyrac knocking over a stack of papers with a tail wag that seems a little too premeditated. Then they dash into Courfeyrac's own room, where the female wolf prances proudly in a loose circle before dashing out again. Monet is curled up in wolf form in his room, and Grantaire presses his ears back in apology as he hastily backs out.

The final bedroom is Enjolras'. Grantaire slinks toward the door, belly to the ground, whining low at Courfeyrac. The female wolf prances up to the door, seemingly unconcerned, nosing it gently open. A low, exasperated huff slips from Courfeyrac's throat, and Grantaire peers over the other wolf's shoulder to see Enjolras sitting at a desk, writing. Books are open around him, but he doesn't seem to glance at them, absorbed in his work.

Courfeyrac crouches down, tail twitching, eyes narrowed with mischief.

"Don't." Enjolras speaks quietly, but it stops Courfeyrac immediately, though Grantaire can feel no echoing of the alpha's power in the words. "Not right now. I'll be out in a few minutes, and then we can play. Show him the kitchen and the den, and try to have just a bit more patience."

Sighing, a far more human sound than Grantaire has heard from a wolf before, Courfeyrac retreats from the doorway.

The kitchen is a cacophony of fantastic smells, and Grantaire is pleased to see Courfeyrac demonstrate how easy it is to open the cupboards even with four feet. The meat that the pack has stashed is salty, tough, not what he would normally choose to eat in this form, but he long ago learned that beggars can't be choosers, and having an after-dinner treat is something he won't ever turn his nose up at.

About half the pack has gathered in front of the fire when Courfeyrac finally leads him there. Combeferre lies stretched out on the hearth in human form, his shirt unbuttoned, a book lying before him. Musichetta, Joly and Bossuet all rest against him, furred, raising sleepy eyes to peer at Grantaire when Courfeyrac leads him over. Jehan scribbles in a notebook, biting his lip in concentration, while Bahorel's wolf form stretches across his legs.

Grantaire studies the pack, sitting uncertainly for a moment. Raising a back foot to scratch at an itch, he considers who he should approach. Jehan, perhaps, since he is the lowest-ranked wolf? Or should have simply stay with Courfeyrac, follow him as he greets Combeferre, though he will refrain from licking Combeferre's face with as much exuberance as Courfeyrac is.

He's saved from making a decision by Enjolras appearing. The alpha has stripped down to a loose white shirt and black pants, and he smiles at his pack when he sees them.

The pack bounds up, swarming around their alpha, those in wolf form greeting him with small licks, those still human rubbing their heads against his shoulder. Courfeyrac begins worrying at the hem of Enjolras' pants, and after a moment Enjolras shakes him free with an exasperated, "All right, all right."

Grantaire watches as all the wolves respectfully back away, sitting patiently, Courfeyrac with a wolf-wide grin and a happily wagging tail. Enjolras strips out of his clothes with the ease of long practice, and Grantaire isn't surprised to see Combeferre and Jehan do the same.

What an alpha like Enjolras feels, those close to him will feel, and being trapped by human clothing in wolf form really isn't fun.

Enjolras is beautiful as a wolf. His fur is a pale blond, healthy, lustrous, and his eyes are bright, luminous as the fullest moon. Grantaire has no doubt that were he in his human form, better able to see color, they would be the bluest blue he could ever hope to paint.

Enjolras greets the pack again, moving from wolf to wolf, ensuring that he touches each one. Other wolves trickle down the stairs, until the whole pack is present, all furred, all exuding contentment.

Contentment turns to excitement as Courfeyrac play-bows to his alpha. At first Grantaire thinks that Enjolras is going to ignore the other wolf, as he turns toward the fire. A slight shoulder-check from Combeferre that could have been intentional or could have been accidental turns Enjolras back to Courfeyrac, though, and after a moment's hesitation he returns the play-bow. It is, Grantaire thinks for one confused moment, the signal for every wolf in the pack to go mad.

The fury of activity soon sorts itself out into individual matches, though, wolves joining and splitting apart again in games of chase and mock-fights that don't even result in lost fur.

They don't include him in the play. They don't exclude him, not intentionally, but the mad dashing and brief, playful tousles run through the pack magic. They reinforce mate-bonds, pack-bonds, reiterate the hierarchy of the pack, and he has no place in that hierarchy yet. Soon, hopefully, but not yet.

That's all right, though. He's content, for now, to watch these wolves enjoy themselves, to bask in the glow of their affection for and trust of each other, and to know that, one day, he will get to enjoy this.

One day, he will be worthy of Enjolras' attention.

XXX

The play eventually calms down, wolves peeling away with yawns and stretches. Jehan and Bahorel head up the stairs; Feuilly and Monet retreat back to Monet's room, though Feuilly returns naked a few moments later to steal some coals from the fire for a bed-warmer. Musichetta, Joly and Bossuet settle down to sleep, still in their wolf forms. Combeferre stretches into his human form and walks sleepily toward his room, Courfeyrac trotting happily at his side. Enjolras retreats to his own room a moment later.

After a moment's consideration, Grantaire curls up next to Joly. The other wolf eyes him sleepily for a moment before giving a brief, welcoming wag of his tail and settling back down again.

Within minutes, the house is silent, and Grantaire can feel the quieting of the pack magic to a dull background hum.

He should sleep. He should relax. He should be able to relax, because he is safe here, accepted here, and perhaps he will make a better impression on these wolves tomorrow if he is well-rested and not drunk—well, not too drunk.

He can't sleep, though. He's wound too tight, too drunk on the thrill of pack-magic all around him, too off-put to be sleeping in the midst of so much magic when he isn't a part of it.

Burying his head against his side, closing his eyes tight and pinning his ears back against his head, he tells himself that it doesn't matter. This will be his pack. These will be his people.

This won't be like other times. He won't be driven away. They won't be disgusted by him. He won't give insult when no insult is meant. He won't fight with those that he wants as his allies, his _friends_, not again.

He dozes, fitfully, waking from half-dream, half-memories of blood and pain more often than he would like. Once Joly snuggles against him, the other wolf huffing a comforting sound into his ear. Once Musichetta licks his muzzle, pressing him tighter to the other males. Once Bossuet attempts to curl up against him, somehow resulting in them both having singed tails. Each time it brings comfort, briefly, and he returns to sleep only to have another nightmare rip him back to the waking world.

He doesn't remember the names of the wolves in his last dream. They were strays who had attempted to form their own pack, and he had been foolish enough to ask to join. Strays were strays for a reason, though, and a half-mad alpha who could barely thread the pack together didn't need the strain of an unintentionally insubordinate wolf, too.

He hadn't meant to give insult.

He hadn't meant to cause trouble.

He hadn't wanted to fight, to taste the mad alpha's blood, to splinter that almost-pack, but intentions didn't always matter.

"Hush." A hand, human, strokes between his ears. "You're here. You're safe."

He presses against the gentle hand before he's fully awake, settling with a contented huff into the strength of Enjolras' power. Only once he's fully conscious does he freeze, uncertain.

"Don't worry." Enjolras' voice is quiet but full of steel, of authority, of certainty that Grantaire sinks into with a deep sigh. "No one hurts my wolves. You're safe here."

Musichetta, Joly and Bossuet press against them, surround Grantaire and Enjolras with the smell of wolves, the scent of pack.

"Now, sleep."

Grantaire doesn't protest, doesn't fight that note of authority, closing his eyes and allowing himself to sink into the darkness of dreamless sleep without fear.

Enjolras' voice continues to murmur, quiet, far away. "We all need to sleep, and sleep well, because we've plenty of work to do in the morning."


	8. Part Seven: The First Morning

_Part Seven: The First Morning_

Cosette waits until her father leaves to gather together a small bowl of food and venture outside to look for the dog. She has no solid reason for being so secretive. True, papa might protest her potentially putting herself in danger with the beast. Perhaps there is even some merit to his fear.

But she can't stop thinking of the dog's liquid brown eyes, so bright and clear and seeming to pierce straight through to her soul. If she can find him, she will feed him.

The likelihood that she will find him is slim, especially given that papa had done a cursory search of the garden earlier, but she wishes to look, anyway.

The winter's cold bites sharply even through her shawl, and she shivers as she steps out into the clear part of the garden near the door. Holding the bowl out in front of her, feeling rather foolish, she looks around for the dog.

He appears between one breath and the next, seeming to melt out of the shrubbery. His fur is a handsome dark grey in the light, the ears and tail tipped with a rich brown. His coat is lush, gorgeous, and his tail waves happily above his back.

Taking a step towards him, she sets down the bowl before retreating back to the door. Her heart beats too quickly, though she can't say whether it's from fear or exhilaration as she watches him devour the contents of the bowl in four large bites. Holding the bowl steady between his front paws, he licks the inside almost delicately, his eyes staying fixed on her.

He is a beautiful creature.

He is a wild creature.

He is intelligent.

She doesn't know where she gleans the knowledge of the last two from. She has had little enough time to interact with animals in her life. Perhaps there are dogs, well-kept dogs such as noblemen use for hunting, which carry such thick, lustrous coats as a matter of course. Perhaps he is so beautiful and wild-looking because she has only starving street mutts to compare him to.

Perhaps, but she doesn't think so. In fact, she's not sure he looks much like a dog at all. A dog's relative, certainly, but did dogs come in this size? Did they have such intelligence in their eyes?

"Are you a wolf?" She asks the question as he stretches, closing his eyes.

The dog—or wolf—freezes, sinking down slowly onto his belly and pinning his ears back to his head. His eyes open, fixing on her, and she could swear there is fear and sorrow in them.

"You are, aren't you?" A tiny thrill of fright runs through her, but rational thought soon pushes it away. "No, of course you aren't. A wolf in Paris, how silly, especially when by all reports they are nearly gone even from the countryside. Perhaps a wolf-dog hybrid, then? Are you lost? Do you belong to somebody?"

The creature continues to stare at her, eyes slowly widening, head held perfectly still.

Laughing to herself, Cosette shakes her head. "How foolish, to ask the pet where the owner is, to question you as though you could answer me. I am glad that I was able to feed you, Monsieur Wolf, and I pray that you will hide in the garden again should another winter's squall find you without your master."

Wolf inclines his head, ears pricking forward again, tail swishing in what she can only hope is joy or enthusiasm or something of the sort.

Taking a cautious step forward, she reaches down toward the bowl, ready to retreat if Wolf begins to growl or show his teeth.

Wolf retreats, instead, tail still waving but held low. Is that a good thing? Does that mean he likes her?

Turning back to the house, smiling despite feeling somewhat foolish, she reaches for the door.

A low bark from Wolf causes her to flinch and spin, her hand holding tight to the door. He isn't attacking her, though. Rather, he dances in a circle, his feet barely leaving imprints in the snow, and whines low in his throat.

"Are you still hungry?" Frowning at the creature, she clutches the bowl closer to her. Her heart still hasn't slowed to its original speed. "Do you need water?"

Snapping up a mouthful of snow, Wolf continues to prance. His forelegs flatten themselves on the ground while his back end raises higher, his tail continuing to wave as though it were a flag.

"Do you not want me to go?" Smiling, she relaxes her hold on the door. "And what, Monsieur Wolf, would you suggest a young lady do with a creature such as yourself?"

As if in answer, his darts off to the side, grabbing a fallen branch in his mouth and slowly, gingerly, advancing toward her. He drops the stick at her feet and retreats, his head still low.

Lifting the stick uncertainly, she stares between him and it. "What would you have me do?"

He stares at her, blinking a few times in what could be shock. Then he slinks his way over to her, touches the stick with his nose, backs away, spins, and dashes off into the garden.

He repeats the performance once more before she understands, and then twice more while she claps at his antics, his grace, his agility. Finally, though, she throws the stick for him.

She plays with Wolf for nearly an hour before the cold begins to really numb her hands, to turn her feet into awkward, painful stumps on the end of her legs. When Wolf brings the stick to her, she shakes her head, blowing on her hands. "I'm going to need to go back inside. Perhaps we can play again later, though."

The beast heaves a deep sigh and allows his head to droop down. He inches forward, one step at a time, until he is close enough to place his nose against her hand.

His nose is warm, just slightly wet, the texture strange against her skin. Smiling, she holds her palm out for him to sniff before gently reaching forward to run her fingers along his nose, over his head. His fur is just as soft and warm as she had expected it to be, the outer hairs slightly moist from dancing through the snow but the undercoat thick and dry against her fingers.

After perhaps a minute Wolf pulls away, trotting off toward the side of the garden where he had been the night before. He slips underneath a bush, and a sliver of dark gray that doesn't quite match the bark of the branches catches her eye.

Curious, Cosette follows the wolf, trying not to shiver or to worry about her skirt in the snow. Skirts will dry. Her feet will warm themselves. Her curiosity, though, will only be sated by getting a good look at the mysterious objects lurking in her garden. Wolf returns to watch her progress, his head tilted to the side in a show of curiosity.

And there, arrayed above Wolf, stashed in the bushes in such a way that they are not clearly visible from the house, are off the ground, and are partly protected from falling snow, is a full set of men's clothing.

Reaching out tentatively, she lifts the coat that had initially caught her eye, feeling the coarse fabric under her fingers. The cloth was well-made, once, but it is old and worn, patched in several places. The vest, the breeches, the boots that she finds beneath the tree, all show a similar pattern, well-made garments used carefully until they are well past their prime. She refrains from checking the undergarments, blushing fiercely as she tries hard to ignore their presence, but assumes they are in a similar situation.

Why is there a man's outfit in her garden?

Perhaps Papa… but no, his broad shoulders would have trouble fitting into these clothes. And why would Papa keep clothes in the garden, when they have an entire house in which to store their belongings? Her Papa can do strange things, but this would be strange even for him. So where…?

Wolf's teeth gently settle into the fabric, pulling it towards him, careful not to pull hard enough to rip the seams. His large brown eyes, so intelligent, regard her with an expression that seems far too much like trepidation.

"Are these your master's?" If so, then where is the man? And better yet, why would he abandon his clothes in the middle of winter? And how had he entered the garden?

For that matter, how had Wolf entered the garden?

Wolf continues to pull at the clothing, gentle but insistent.

"All right, all right." Returning the jacket to its place, she looks between the beast and the clothes. Watches the hesitancy in his eyes, the _humanity_ in his eyes, and a sudden thrill runs through her body.

Could it be…?

"No, Cosette." Shaking her head, she smiles at the absurdity of her own thoughts. Perhaps she has been reading too much lately. "There is most certainly a logical explanation for this. If only you could talk, Wolf, I'm sure you could explain everything."

Wolf continues to study her, his expression grave, and did all dogs have eyes like his? Did all dogs have such intelligence in their gaze?

Shivering slightly, not entirely sure it's from the cold, Cosette hurries back to the house.

XXX

Grantaire wakes to chaos.

For long seconds he just blinks blurrily at the figures rushing back and forth around him, not sure what's going on or where he is. Did he pass out in a tavern again? Is he on the street? Did he manage to crawl his way to an inn?

Then he inhales, and in a burst of joy and trepidation he remembers everything. He is in the pack's house, in Enjolras' house, and he is a welcome guest.

"Well, stray?" Courfeyrac's hand settles onto Grantaire's head, ruffles the fur behind his ears in a way that is pitch-perfect. "Did you sleep well?"

Grantaire's tail freezes in mid-wave, his ears pinning themselves back against his head. He woke the others during the night with his foolish dreams. He woke _Enjolras_, dragged the alpha from his rest to deal with a stray, and though Enjolras' arms around him had felt fantastically _right_ surely the alpha is annoyed with him.

"Don't worry." Courfeyrac's hand continues to fondle his ears. "We don't begrudge you nightmares, least of all him. He deals with all of our foibles with a patience and a degree of compassion that I would be thrilled to see all alphas share."

Grantaire relaxes, just slightly, turning his head to look up at Courfeyrac. He should really shift back to his human form, to make this conversation easier.

Another set of legs pauses in front of him, and Grantaire stares up to see Jehan's curly hair. The female frowns down at him before turning to Courfeyrac. "What's he going to do today?"

"I don't know." Scratching at his own ear, Courfeyrac shrugs. "Perhaps he can follow one of us around, get a better idea of what we do."

Stretching his legs forward, Grantaire reaches for and finds his human form. A few spine-tingling, skin-itching moments later, he's human again, his vision sharper, colors standing out bright and clear once more. Courfeyrac is well-dressed, perfectly pitched to fit in among the young dandies of Paris; Jehan's outfit doesn't quite seem to match, the colors clashing just slightly, and is more rumpled than Courfeyrac's. Sitting with as much dignity as he can muster in his naked state, reminding himself once more than he is among Pack here, Grantaire shakes hair away from his eyes. "I don't want to be any trouble. I can entertain myself, and meet up with you at the café this evening."

"No." Jehan smiles, reaching down to shift stray strands of black hair away from Grantaire's eyes. "I like the idea of showing you around. If you will be pack, it'll be important for you to know what we do. You'll need to dress quickly, though. I have class in a little under an hour."

"I'll be swift, then." Clambering to his feet, Grantaire heads for the stairs and his clothing.

He's never been to class, and has no idea what it actually entails, but perhaps it will be an entertaining way to pass the morning.

XXX

"Remember the way." Jehan tugs on Grantaire's sleeve sharply, drawing the stray's attention back to him and away from the house. Enjolras had bid them farewell, the alpha not having anything that needed his immediate and personal attention for a few more hours, and Grantaire's gaze keeps getting drawn back toward where the exchange had taken place. "Grantaire. Pay attention. I know he's fascinating, but now is not the time to get distracted by him. Watch the way we take to the college."

"Why?" Grantaire asks the question bluntly, finally wrenching his eyes from the invisible point inside the house where Enjolras is almost certainly not even standing anymore. His head is held upright, in a position of authority, and his eyes meet Jehan's evenly.

Jehan forces himself not to bristle. The stray doesn't mean offense, and he won't take offense. "Because if you don't, you could start a territory dispute or find yourself in worse trouble, depending on whose land you encroach upon."

"Oh." Grantaire frowns, staring around them with an expression that is blearier than Jehan would like. "Do you not control the college, then?"

"The college is neutral territory. It has been for the last three years, ever since Enjolras arrived."

Grantaire's frown deepens. "I don't understand."

"The land the college is on used to belong to a well-established pack. The alpha was one of the professors at the university. Wolves attended university at his discretion and his tolerance. Enjolras… changed that." Jehan shivers, a mixture of pride and old fear filling him.

It was before Enjolras claimed him, before he even considered joining the young alpha's new pack. He had been a stray, but a young one, an expected one, testing the waters of various packs to decide which he would join. His magic wasn't strong enough to sustain a pack of his own, and there weren't many who would follow him with his scent as submissive as it was. The university had been his latest stop, a chance to learn and to read and to revel, for a brief amount of time, in the things he enjoyed most about the humans—their intelligence, their creativity, the beauties that they could create.

"He changed it." There's a strange mixture of awe and disbelief in Grantaire's voice. "He defeated the alpha?"

"No." Jehan shakes his head. "Well… yes. But he didn't take the pack or steal their territory. All the alphas of the city met, and it was determined that the college will henceforth be neutral territory. Every pack's territory was marked on the map, and a route from their territory to the college was also declared neutral territory. I believe that's when Enjolras claimed this territory as his own, and collected a few of the others for his pack. He already had Combeferre, and I think Courfeyrac joined them around then."

"He had all the alphas of the city meet." Grantaire continues to stare at Jehan incredulously. "_All_ of them? And they didn't start fighting?"

"They do so every three months now." Jehan smiles again, proud at being able to surprise this stray. "Meet, not fight. There's no fighting allowed. It's a time for alphas to discuss problems they're having, to discuss territory disputes if need be, to discuss concerns about the humans. It's proven to be very effective at cutting down on intra-Pack aggression."

"Most likely because all of their alphas are too busy hating _him_ to hate each other." Grantaire mutters the words almost to himself. "It's… I've never heard of packs doing something like that, Jehan. It's unnatural. If it were anyone but _him_ asking them to do it…"

"But he did ask them, and it's working." Shrugging, Jehan allows his gaze to drop to the street. "Our people are capable of change, Grantaire. Perhaps they only considered change in this circumstance because Enjolras had the strength to make them, but once they see that it's _better_ this way, that it leaves us stronger and better defended, leaves fewer chances for accidents or for the humans to notice us before we're ready… I think that other cities will follow suit swiftly, followed by those areas of the countryside where our people are numerous enough to put packs in close proximity."

"You're all mad." Shaking his head, Grantaire looks around warily, as though expecting other wolves to attack them at any moment. "You're painting targets on yourselves. You're earning the enmity of the wolves and the humans both, and for what?"

"To help." Settling his hand gently on the stray's shoulder, Jehan resists the urge to nuzzle against him. They are in public. They must act human, and keep their voices down. Never mind the instincts telling him to protect the submissive wolf, or his own nature that hates to see distress. "We will give our children a safer, better world than we were given. We will build a world where everyone is given access to education, to knowledge, to _beauty_, Grantaire, and it will be amazing."

"You're mad." Grantaire repeats the accusation, but there is a fondness and bemused acceptance to the way he says it this time that dispels any tension there had been. "But it's fun to hear you talk about your mad dreams."

"You should hear Enjolras talk, then."

"I have, and I've no doubt I'll hear him again." Gaze still scanning the street, more it seems to memorize than out of wariness now, Grantaire smiles. "So, what will I be educated about at the university today?"

XXX

Marius waits until the girl stops coming to the back window to peer out at him before changing. He could always just slink further back in the bushes, he supposes, but that will leave him longer without his clothes and thus colder. That makes it well on its way to noon before he regains his human form.

Shuddering and shivering as soon as his fur's gone, he forces his unsteady hands to grab his clothes in the proper order.

He shouldn't have done what he did.

He shouldn't have attracted the woman's attention like that.

He shouldn't have asked her to play with him, or _enjoyed_ it so much.

He shouldn't have gotten so defensive of his clothes, but he _needs_ them.

He _should_ leave, now, as soon as he's fully dressed and has stopped shivering quite so much. He shouldn't ever return here. He should find another place, somewhere that a pack won't notice him for a bit, and try once again to blend into the background, to be _human_.

He tells himself this firmly as he slips out between the loose bars, but his eyes still turn back to the garden. He still pictures her face, her eyes, and he can still hear the ghost of her laughter in his ears, so pleasant, so _innocent_.

It's madness, his even considering it. He wants to pass as human, but even if he does, he could never…

She has no rank. She has no pack. There could be no mate-bond between them, no magic tying them mind to mind, soul to soul.

She has no beast locked within her, woken by the full moon's light at least once a month. She would hate him, despise him, fear him, set her father to kill him if she were to find out.

And yet…

Perhaps he will return here. Perhaps he will peer through the gates, and see if she notices him. Perhaps they will talk, and he can tell her his name, and maybe…

It's beyond foolish. It's beyond stupid.

But so is everything else he's done in the last two years. Why should he decide to change his tactics now?

XXX

"If I hear another poem in the next week, I will scream."

Bahorel chuckles, taking a bite out of his steak before answering. "You're going to hurt Jehan's feelings, stray."

"Jehan's poetry is fine." Grantaire downs half of his drink in one swig, grateful for the burn of alcohol in his mouth. The headache that had been starting to tease at him loosens its hold. "Jehan can make up any poetry he wants. But real poetry, and people talking about every little word and cadence and speaking in languages that I don't even think are _real_—"

"I assure you, they were all real languages." Jehan arches an eyebrow. "And I fail to see how telling me that my poetry isn't 'real' is supposed to assuage the insult. I have managed to publish a bit of my work, you know."

"Well, I meant…" Grantaire lowers his eyes, scratching at the wooden table-top of the small restaurant they had met Bahorel in for lunch. "I mean, yours make _sense_. They're actually good."

Jehan's expression relaxes, just slightly. "What we went over in class would have made sense to you if you had been present for earlier discussions. Perhaps it was a bad idea, taking you to my classes. Showing you where the university is will be helpful for the future, though, as you decide what you'd like to study yourself."

"Wait, what?" Grantaire frowns at the poet. "I'm supposed to study?"

"Or take a job. Either way. It's what we do when we aren't plotting revolution. Enjolras and Courfeyrac are preparing for the bar exam soon. Bahorel should be, as well, but he's a bad tendency to skip class." Jehan gives his mate's arm a shove.

Bahorel only grins in reply. "I do what I'm good at."

"Joly's working to be a doctor. Feuilly works as a fan-maker. Musichetta does odd jobs, mainly catering, cleaning, hauling things. He tried school for a bit, but didn't like it."

"And if I join the pack, you expect me to attend classes?" Finishing the rest of his drink and calling for another, Grantaire shakes his head. "I don't have that kind of money, or, I think, that kind of talent."

"Find what you're talented at, then. If you become one of us, the pack will support you as you find your place."

There's a simple complacency to the way Jehan speaks about finding a job or a career that causes Grantaire's mind to freeze. Does the young wolf really think it's that simple? Does he really think that finding something useful to do to fill one's time was a matter to be flippantly discussed over dinner?

Does he really think Grantaire can be _useful_?

"If we accept you, stray, you'll find your place." Bahorel claps him on the shoulder, and there's more power in the blow than Grantaire would normally expect from a man or wolf of his size. "Maybe you'll run around doing what Enjolras needs. It seems that would make you happy enough. Or maybe you'll decide to be a lawyer, as terrible of a job as it is. Or maybe you'll be an artisan or a poet or something, I don't know, but you'll find it. You'll find your own way to help make the pack self-sufficient. Panicking about it now won't do you any good."

"Why did the two of you decide to join his pack?" Grantaire asks the question of the tabletop, his head held purposefully low. He doesn't want to make it seem like he's questioning their pack or their alpha.

"Because I saw what he was doing, and I thought it was fantastic." Jehan answers first, amber eyes bright with the same fire that had first drawn Grantaire to Enjolras. "To think that we could change the way we're living, Grantaire… to think that an alpha, an alpha like _him_, would decide that his whole pack should decide what they do and how they live… I've never had much power. I was resigned to finding a pack that I could tolerate, where my views aligned with the alpha's well enough that I could survive with my soul intact. Instead, I found someone who wants my opinion, who listens to me, who trusts me, who has a vision even greater than anything I had ever imagined. If I could help him at all, help _them_ at all, if my verses or my hands or even my death could help bring about the world that Enjolras and Courfeyrac and Combeferre see, a world that I've helped them imagine… how could I possibly turn that down?"

"I've got a problem with kings." Bahorel smiles as he says the words, but it's a thin, bitter smile that doesn't reach his sharp green eyes. "Have you figured out what I am yet?"

"No." Shaking his head, Grantaire raises his hands in a gesture of incomprehension. "I suspected from when I first met you that you weren't entirely of Pack blood, but I don't know what else you could be. You seem to have an… interesting effect on the Change sometimes, too."

"I make wolves want to Change." Bahorel continues to smile, toying with the rim of his glass. "I make them think of the wilds, of running, of freedom, and I push them towards Changing if I'm not careful. Once they figured it out, my birth pack's alpha wanted to kill me. He would have, too, if my mother hadn't stopped him. My father's people haven't been the kindest to me, either, and living as a _human_, having a king who doesn't even have to feel your hate and fear when he turns on you… I much prefer the world Enjolras and his pack imagine."

"I'm sorry." It's not an adequate response, and Grantaire knows that. He can't imagine having his birth pack turn on him. He had always known that he would have trouble finding another pack that could accept his differences, but at least he had his childhood. At least he had a bit of time as an almost-normal member of Pack society.

"It's in the past." Bahorel gives his head and shoulders a shake, and his smile is genuine as he raises his glass. "We're creating a better future. It gives me a good excuse to cause trouble, too. I don't suppose you're any good in a fight?"

"I can usually hold my own, if I'm not too drunk." Grantaire frowns, running back over the conversation. "Wait. You didn't ever say what your father was, did you?"

Bahorel laughs. "That's a little piece of information that'll wait until you ask for Pack status, stray."


	9. Part Eight: Meeting the Neighbors

_Part Eight: Meeting the Neighbors_

He follows Bahorel after they finish their meal, trying his best not to insult Jehan or his interests by doing so. The poet seems to take no offense, cheerfully heading on his way after urging Bahorel to at least consider attending perhaps _one_ of his classes.

"Why ever would I want to do that?" Bahorel grins as he speaks the words quietly, so that Jehan's retreating figure won't hear clearly. "I've much more interesting and important work to do."

So Grantaire finds himself following the higher-ranked wolf from the café that they had dined at to a smaller, noisier, more crowded tavern. From the talk and the looks of those around him, he guesses that this is a popular gathering-spot for students.

"This is still neutral ground." Bahorel speaks low, standing just inside the doorway, so that only Grantaire with his better-than-human hearing should be able to hear clearly. "It's still largely associated with the university, but go another street over and you're into another pack's territory. You'll smell when you cross over—all the packs in Paris have been very particular this last year or so about making sure their territory is well marked—but an extra warning doesn't hurt."

Grantaire nods, staring around the dimly-lit room. "And why are we here?"

Bahorel claps him on the shoulder, managing to gently inch Grantaire's head down in the process. Exposing his neck just slightly, Grantaire can feel the more dominant wolf's muscles relax as he stops provoking the other man unintentionally. When the other wolf speaks, it's in a normal conversational tone. "We're here so I can meet some friends and try to talk some sense into people. Just follow and try not to cause too much trouble. Enjolras hates when we break things without proper justification."

Grantaire doesn't get to ask what proper justification is, because Bahorel's already moving, springing into the small groups of people and greeting them with hearty, unfeigned cheer. Slinking over to the side, staying as unobtrusive as he can, Grantaire decides that he'll simply watch for now and see what's going to happen.

What's going to happen is that Bahorel's going to talk.

A lot.

Grantaire's not sure he's ever seen a wolf speak so long or so eloquently with humans before. He tries to follow what Bahorel's saying, and he does all right for a little bit, but there are politicians and theories and sometimes, he's pretty sure, languages involved in the man's discussion that Grantaire doesn't know.

What he _does_ understand, he manages to find frightening and mystifying and, somehow, endearing all at once.

How can a dominant wolf urge these humans to rebel against authority? How can a man who thrums with such power, who could, perchance, lead a pack, or at least be beta to any other alpha, instigate rebellion? How can he talk so cheerfully of the rights of man, when they aren't even human?

How can he seem to care for these people and the people that they discuss, the poor, the downtrodden, the helpless, when they are the ones who could destroy all of the Pack in mindless violence if they were ever discovered?

"Hello, stray."

The wolf speaks quietly, for Grantaire's ears only, though it doesn't matter much. Bahorel has quickly made himself the center of attention, and most of the humans are gathered around him, either agreeing with or debating with him.

Grantaire turns to the wolf warily, body already preparing to fight or run as he needs to. Never mind that this is supposedly neutral ground. Never mind that he is considering joining Enjolras' pack. Here is a dominant wolf, male, strong, and he is looking at Grantaire with a smile that shows too many teeth and does nothing to change the scent of his fury.

"You reek of his pack." The dominant wolf settles at the table next to Grantaire, his eyes staying locked onto Grantaire's. Leaning towards him, he inhales deeply, and the furious light in his dark eyes redoubles. "Already quite brazen, aren't you?"

Belatedly Grantaire ducks his head, though he can't bring himself to actually look away from this wolf. All his instincts tell him that this man wants to hurt him, and since he is not of this man's pack there is nothing to prevent him from doing so. "If I gave offense, it wasn't intentional, good sir."

The wolf's fury fades slightly as Grantaire stops challenging him, the scent of anger and frustration dying away to one of sullen discontent. "Fair enough, stray. I suppose I did surprise you. You've been with Enjolras' pack, yes?"

"I'm…" Grantaire considers the wolf, still with lowered head. He is dominant, perhaps as dominant as Combeferre, though they would need to stand side by side in order to truly compare scents, and even then, it would likely come to blows to settle the hierarchy. "Staying with them, for a little while, at least. My name's Grantaire."

"Badeau." The wolf introduces himself calmly, his eyes having drifted from Grantaire to Bahorel. His voice drops even lower, so Grantaire has to shift closer to him despite his own desires in order to hear. "I'm alpha of the pack whose land lies just east of here. My wolves told me one of Enjolras' pack was stirring up trouble again. They failed to mention you."

"Compared to Bahorel, I am rather easy to miss." Grantaire takes a sip from his drink. "I don't suppose you'd like to while away the time with a game? I'm a fair hand at dominoes."

The alpha turns to stare at him again, confusion and disbelief shining from his dark brown eyes before turning to bemused laughter. "Ah, one of Enjolras' strays, indeed. So what's wrong with you, other than a penchant for endangering your own life?"

Grantaire frowns down at the table. "I thought I was doing rather well, since I'm in the unfortunate situation of being elbow-to-elbow with an alpha who cornered me without provocation and seems intent on keeping me cornered."

"Quite the mouth for a stray." Badeau frowns, the fury flaring for a moment before being tamped back down as the dominant wolf takes a handful of deep breaths. "But you're right. I've been rude. I've placed a submissive in a position where he could submit or risk his life, and then grew snappish when he didn't want to submit. This isn't the country, though. I can't simply bark at you and expect you to disappear."

"I've no intention of bothering you or your pack." Grantaire speaks calmly, though his heart is still beating too quickly. Glancing at Bahorel shows the other wolf gazing back at him, eyebrows raised in silent question. Shaking his head, Grantaire nods to the gathered humans. Bringing Bahorel over wouldn't diffuse this situation. If anything, it would make this alpha more prone to violence, and Enjolras doesn't approve of unnecessary violence.

"You're staying with _them_." Badeau spits out the word as though it were a curse. "Have a care who you associate yourself with, stray. That… _creature_ and his wolves aren't natural. Getting yourself involved with them is asking to die, and to die for foolish reasons."

"Oh?" Grantaire keeps his tone non-committal. "Have they done something to offend you, then?"

"Done something?" Badeua laughs, a bitter, frustrated sound. "They've changed _everything_, Grantaire. This isn't a proper city anymore. Alphas don't have the power that they should have, because _he_ says that we shouldn't and everyone's too afraid of him to even consider fighting back. I can't attack those who are endangering my pack, even when they sit not a stone's throw from my territory. I can't expand my territory as I wish, as my strength says I should be able to. I have to _talk_, and talk well, or that monster will strip away what little he's left us with."

"Did you have territory in the university, then?" Still keeping his tone neutral, Grantaire fights the urge to raise his head, to purposefully insult this man. The clothes and the speech may be different, but he's met alphas like this before. Young, brash, strong, ruling with their fists and their instincts because their minds couldn't keep up with the power that they had, and it wasn't fair. Why should _he_ be so submissive, so weak and useless, when a man like this had magic to spare?

"No." Flushing slightly, Badeau tilts his head away. "It wasn't worth fighting with Armand over it, not yet. I would have eventually, though. I might even have taken the whole university, when the pack got large enough. Armand's old and getting older, while we've just had our first round of pups. Healthy pups, too, and how are they supposed to learn to be proper wolves with Enjolras… _changing _things?"

"And your pack all feel the same way?" It's a simple question, but a dangerous one, and Grantaire smiles and downs the rest of his drink as he says it.

This alpha won't care what the rest of his pack thinks.

This alpha will be insulted to be challenged by a submissive stray.

At this point, Grantaire really doesn't care.

Badeau's fury is an almost palpable thing, but Grantaire continues to smile as he raises his head and faces the alpha squarely. "You haven't asked any of them, have you? You've told them that they hate him, that they hate his pack, that they hate the changes, and because you're alpha they listen to you. But have you listened to what they tell you, what they think, what they feel? No, I don't think you have, though it should ring in that empty space between your ears if you keep your pack-bonds properly. Have you listened when you meet with the other alphas—when you meet with Enjolras? You call him a monster, but his pack is the only one in this damned city, perhaps the only one in this damned country, that's been willing to show me any kindness. So don't expect me to pity you your throttled instincts. Sometimes it's when we don't follow them that we're truly Pack and not just rabid dogs."

He expects the blow, but he still doesn't see it coming. All he sees are stars, bright and fierce and white, exploding across his vision as the alpha punches him with all his strength, the man's fury washing over him in a torrent of scent and pack magic that doesn't touch Grantaire's mind. This man isn't Enjolras. This man isn't bound to him by ties of pack or mating, and that makes his magic useless in this fight.

His vicious left hook makes up for their evenness in magic, though.

By the time Grantaire can blink his vision clear, Bahorel and Badeau are circling each other warily, Bahorel taking experimental swings at the other wolf while Badeau spits half-intelligible curses at Bahorel and Enjolras in turn. A circle of laughing, cheering humans has surrounded the two wolves, and Grantaire wonders how they can miss the feral gleam in Badeau's eyes, the inhuman protectiveness in Bahorel's stance and snarl. Are they really so blind?

Is he really so close to Enjolras' pack, already, that Bahorel feels dominant responsibility for him?

"Bahorel." Grantaire speaks quietly, lowering his head in submission when Bahorel spares him a quick glance. "Were you just about done?"

"No." Stiffening, Bahorel's baleful glare returns to Badeau. "And we're not leaving until I'm ready to."

The words are a challenge, and Grantaire can see Badeau stiffen in inexpressible rage at the affront. If he's not careful, the other alpha's going to work himself into doing something stupid that they'll likely all regret.

Two other wolves, one male and one female, shoulder their way through the crowd to Badeau's side. Bahorel plants himself more firmly in front of Grantaire.

Well, this is not turning out the way that Grantaire had intended.

"Go home, Badeau." Bahorel speaks calmly, evenly. "Take your p—friends and go home. This isn't worth getting into a brawl over."

"That's for me to decide, isn't it?" Badeau still snarls the words, but he seems calmer, steadier with his wolves at his side. "With you and your friends making trouble, it seems like it's fair enough if me and me w—friends make trouble for you."

Grantaire finds himself frowning and repeating the words, trying to ensure that the sentence actually means what Badeau clearly thinks it means. Or maybe it's just the residual ringing in his ears making it hard for him to follow.

"I could make you regret deciding to stay." Bahorel's voice is still low and calm, but now there's an ugly, threatening note to it. "You know it would be easy enough for me to do."

Badeau pales, and there's a sudden scent of fear from the wolves with him. After a second the alpha shakes his head. "You wouldn't dare. You'd all suffer as much as the rest of us."

"Don't force me to decide what I'll dare." Bahorel's thin smile, full of fear and a bitter certainty, is terrible to behold. "He's under my protection. He's under Enjolras' protection."

Grantaire finds himself holding his breath, wishing he knew what he could say to diffuse the situation, terrified and in awe of what he thinks Bahorel's suggesting.

It would be foolishness incarnate. It would be a terrible blow to all wolves, to have them found out like this, in a bar fight connected with rebellion, and the idea that Bahorel would force the Change on these wolves for _him_…

"_Bahorel_."

Jehan's voice slices through the suddenly uncertain mumbling of the crowd. They were excited to see a fight, to see blood, and this strange discussion is doing nothing but making them uneasy.

"Bahorel." Jehan forces his way up to his mate, the female wolf laying a hand on Bahorel's shoulder. "Enjolras and Combeferre are on their way; the others know."

With those few words Jehan changes everything. If Enjolras is on his way, it means this wouldn't just be a skirmish between a few wolves from different packs. This would be a war, a pack against pack war with both alphas involved, and there's very little doubt in Grantaire's mind which pack would win.

Apparently Badeau feels the same, because he turns away with a fierce, frustrated snarl. Both his wolves touch his shoulder, crowd as close against him as they can in this place filled with humans.

And then they're gone, walking away as though nothing has happened, and Grantaire finds himself letting out a breath he hadn't meant to hold.

Following Bahorel around is a lot more excitement than he had really been prepared for.


	10. Part Nine: An Evening's Trials

_Part Nine: An Evening's Trials_

Grantaire winces as Joly removes the poultice that he had placed on Grantaire's face. Joly's fingers press gently against the edges of the bruise, and he uses one hand on Grantaire's chin to turn Grantaire's face first one way and then the other.

"Your eyes are reacting properly. I don't think you're concussed. Your nose definitely isn't broken. The split lip should heal without stitches. You're going to have a beautiful bruise for the next few days even if you Change, and I'll lay even odds that your muzzle's going to be swollen when you shift, but otherwise I don't think there's any significant damage."

Grantaire nods, allowing his chin to drop to his chest as soon as Joly releases him. He hadn't thought anything was badly damaged, and he's had more experience than he'd care to remember with healing from blows. Still, it's nice of Enjolras to have the would-be doctor check him over before the trial begins.

And it's going to be a trial. All of the wolves have gathered, forming a loose semi-circle around where Grantaire sits in front of the fire and Bahorel paces. The tension is palpable in the room, a frenzy of fear and uncertainty lurking just beneath the human faces of most of the pack as they look between their leader and the two wolves that are about to be questioned. While Grantaire suspects that Enjolras is gentler and fairer with wolves who break his rules than most alphas, the knowledge does little to quiet the frightened whimpering of the wolf inside him that is certain they've angered their alpha.

"Good." Enjolras reaches over to touch Joly's shoulder, a comforting gesture, and the tension in the room eases slightly. "Now, if the two of you could explain to me what happened, I would appreciate it."

Grantaire glances over at Bahorel out of the corner of his eye. The strange wolf paces back and forth next to him, his head lowered but his shoulders hunched defensively as the focus of the entire pack shifts to him.

"Bahorel." Enjolras turns the name into a command, and Bahorel's head jerks up, his eyes meeting his alpha's defiantly. "Tell me what happened. That's all I'm asking. We can't decide what to change going forward if we don't know what happened to cause the problem in the past."

"Well, that's easy enough to answer." A snarl slips out of Bahorel's mouth, no less ferocious for being formed by a human throat. "Badeau attacked our stray without any provocation. He hit him hard enough to draw blood, Enjolras. It's clear enough Grantaire's been staying with us, that he's under our protection, and that man _still_ hit him with me standing right there. He would have kept after him if I hadn't interfered."

"Is that true, Grantaire?" Enjolras' calm blue eyes pierce Grantaire, rooting him to the spot. "Was there no provocation?"

"I…" A low whimper works its way out of Grantaire's throat as he considers how to answer. He won't lie, of course. Even if it's possible that he could fool Enjolras, the pack-bond that would tie him to the alpha still only a ghostly potential hovering between them rather than an emotional highway that would give away his falsehood, he won't have a lie between them. "He approached me. He cornered me. He was insulting you and the pack and the changes that you've made. I responded… without the delicacy that a submissive should show to an alpha."

For a moment there's nothing but silence.

Then there's a suppressed laugh, followed by another, until finally Courfeyrac gives up trying to restrain his mirth. It fractures the remaining tension in the room, and even Enjolras smiles faintly as his gamma regains control of himself and straightens with an apologetic cough.

"Sorry." Courfeyrac doesn't look the least bit sorry. "I just… gods, Enjolras, can you imagine his _face_? Being told off by someone who smells like _Grantaire_?"

Grantaire finds himself smiling, just slightly, hope rising that perhaps this isn't going to turn out quite as badly as he thought it might.

A sense of gravitas returns to the room as Combeferre places an arm around Courfeyrac and a finger across his lips, but the feeling of being on the precipice of disaster has faded away. Enjolras allows a small sigh to slip from his mouth. "We've had… difficulty with Badeau in the past. He's one of the more traditional alphas in the area, which is made all the more frustrating by his youth. It is, unfortunately, easy to imagine how a conversation between you and he could have quickly escalated out of hand without someone else there to intervene."

"I offered to go over and help." Bahorel sounds almost petulant. "He shook his head like he had everything under control."

"I'm sure he did. I'm sure you even thought you did." Enjolras hesitates before shaking his head. "As much as I'm loath to say this, the blow that started the fight isn't what concerns me. I'm glad you're largely unscathed, Grantaire, but a scuffle between wolves on neutral territory wouldn't be the end of the world. Some of the Pack transforming in full daylight in front of a crowd of humans, however…"

"He made him _bleed_, Enjolras." There's a note of pleading in Bahorel's tone that Grantaire would never have expected to hear. "I was outnumbered and I could smell his blood, and him under our pack's protection—"

"We can't react like that." Enjolras speaks firmly, though there's compassion in his eyes as he watches Bahorel. "We can't allow our instincts to dictate our actions. We can protect each other, but we can't let our small pack interfere with what we're trying to do for the whole of the Pack. We can't risk frightening and alienating our allies."

"I didn't actually do it." Bahorel's gaze doesn't meet Enjolras'. "I may have threatened them, but I didn't force anything on anyone."

"Would you have done it?" Enjolras asks the question evenly.

"I… don't know." Bahorel shakes his head. "I don't know, Enjolras. I wanted to rip his throat out. Keeping that from spilling over, keeping it so that I _wasn't_ encouraging them to Change, that was hard, and his pack was gathering… I might have. If Jehan hadn't heard my call and brought you, I might not have been able to help myself."

"It was good, your calling for Jehan." Enjolras reaches down and buries his hand in the poet's hair, earning a sigh from Jehan as the man slowly relaxes. "And it was quick thinking on Jehan's part to summon me."

"Summon you?" Grantaire frowns between Jehan and the alpha. "You can hear words through your pack-bonds when you're that far apart?"

"Sometimes." Enjolras says it as though it isn't important, as though it's not something more unique about this pack. "I keep the magic binding us together as strong as I can, so we can reach each other in times of need more easily. Emotions transfer easiest, of course, and general ideas and concepts like _trouble _or _fight _or _change _or _hurt_ much more easily than any thought, but between all of it I can usually understand a summons from my wolves."

Grantaire stares in open, dumbfounded amazement at Enjolras. All alphas can sense their pack's emotions, but to actually communicate in something approaching the complexity of human speech, especially when they're not even in the same building… There are legends, of course, occasionally of alphas but more often of mates. Legends of mates who could read each other's minds more easily than a newspaper, who could speak mind-to-mind over great distances or even appear to each other when they were separated, but they're just _legends_. They're not _real._ What _is_ this wolf?

"That's not the important thing right now, though." Enjolras turns from Bahorel to the rest of the pack. "Ideas?"

"The first one of you who says it, I'll punch you." Bahorel's hands are clenched into fists. "You can't place a command like that on me, Enjolras. And if you're going to try it, just _do _it, don't make a farce of a vote out of it."

"Bahorel…" Jehan's tone is pleading, his eyes wide as he looks between his mate and his alpha. "Don't do this. No one's said anything about commanding you to do anything."

"No." Enjolras turns to face Bahorel, still the picture of calm. "But you're right. It would be one option, one way to ensure that it doesn't happen again."

"I told you when I agreed to join the pack that I wouldn't be commanded like a dog." Bahorel's head is down, his green eyes bright with anger and fear, his black hair bristling despite the lack of wind inside the pack's den.

Grantaire gulps down a breath, suddenly having to hold the Change back by sheer force of will, not certain that he's going to be able to do it for long.

"Peace." Enjolras' power washes through the room, dismissing the desire to run, to Change, to escape. "Bahorel, peace."

"It's a part of who I am." Bahorel turns away, suddenly looking more embarrassed than afraid. "It's _half _of what I am, Enjolras. If you tried to bind it up in the pack's power… I'm not sure even you could do that."

"We wouldn't know unless we tried." Enjolras' voice is calm, implacable. "But you're right. I promised to be an alpha who would listen to you, not forcing my power or opinion on you, and I like to believe I've lived up to that."

"You have." Bahorel's voice is a quiet whisper, and he inches towards his alpha while looking anywhere but at him. "And I'm sorry. When you ask our opinion, you mean to hear it, not your own words echoed back at you. I'm just… on edge about what happened."

"Does anyone wish to see Bahorel punished for his actions?" Enjolras' words somehow manage to ring through the room, though they're spoken quietly.

No one speaks. Grantaire finds himself looking around the room, trying to read the expressions and the scents of these wolves he's known for only a few days. Surely they wouldn't turn on Bahorel over what happened. Surely they will understand his actions.

Surely he hasn't already begun splintering this pack, before he's even properly joined it.

After a few moment of silence Enjolras smiles. "We're your pack, Bahorel. We don't want to change who or what you are. We just want to help you make better choices about your options in the future. Now, do what we both know you need to do before this can be over."

Without any further prompting Bahorel leaps at his alpha, a low growl rumbling in his chest. Enjolras catches the black-haired man, and in a blur of motion they're both on the ground. Enjolras straddles Bahorel, holding the male wolf's arms above his head, and a single bead of blood drips from Bahorel's left ear to the ground.

"Now." Enjolras' voice is a low, authoritative growl. "Do you want to see what they gave me as their votes?"

After a moment Bahorel raises his chin, exposing his throat. Enjolras releases his hold on Bahorel's arms and places one hand against the male's chest. Enjolras' eyes close, and he breathes deeply, his voice taking on a soft, sing-song quality as his power sweeps out to fill the room, so strong Grantaire can almost _taste_ it, contained fire and vibrant hope on his tongue. "From Jehan: love, frustration, give him another chance. From Joly: don't do anything that could be medically foolish; a warning will suffice. From Bossuet: give a warning; he's prone to fighting, not to stupidity. From Feuilly: show him how incredibly stupid an idea it was, he's smart enough to figure it out. From Musichetta: he was right. From Monet: punish Badeau. From you: I'm sorry, don't be like the other packs. From Courfeyrac: a warning, and ask if Feuilly can paint the image on Badeau's face as he realized he couldn't win. It would make a good dart-board. From Combeferre: let it go, there's been too much tension in the pack these last few days. From Grantaire: don't punish him, I'm not worth it."

Bahorel lies still throughout the recitation, eyes dilated wide until the forest-green iris is almost drowned out. When it's done, he gives a shuddering breath and goes limp underneath Enjolras. "White Lady, Enjolras. How do you _think _with all of us in your head?"

"Mostly I try _not _to think when I'm receiving that much information. It's when I'm asking for _your_ thoughts, after all. I let you do the thinking for me for a few minutes. As for how I process it all…" Enjolras shrugs and smiles as he stands, but there's a slight tremor to his hand as he reaches down to offer Bahorel assist in standing, a tiredness to his eyes that hadn't been there before. "I suppose it's what being an alpha means. You needed to see that, though. You need to know that you can trust us, as we trust you."

"I'm sorry." Bahorel rests his head against his alpha's shoulder. "I won't do it again. Next time I'll just rip his throat out with my human teeth, preferably after giving him two black eyes, a broken nose, and a broken jaw."

"If speaking reason to him fails, I think that's an acceptable alternative plan." Enjolras' arm goes around his delta, holding the man to him. "And out of us all, Bahorel, I think you'd have the best chance of doing it."

XXX

Cosette knows that it's foolish to keep going outside. She knows that Wolf has gone, somehow, as mysteriously as he came, and there's nothing to be gained but cold feet by returning to the garden again and again.

She still does it, though. She hadn't realized how beautiful the garden could be in winter. It's a quiet beauty, a silent, harsh beauty, but beauty nonetheless, and it somehow makes the ache of missing the dog that had never been hers in the first place go away.

She notices the man the third time she goes out.

He's still there the fifth time, wandering back and forth outside the garden gate as though lost, and her heart skips a beat as she realizes why his clothing looks so familiar. She held it in her hands this morning.

She should get her father. She should be wary of a strange man hanging around outside their house.

All she can bring herself to feel is intrigued, though, and there's something endearing in the way he keeps staring toward the garden—toward _her_, she realizes after a moment.

What harm can there be in talking to him? There's a gate between them, anyway, solid iron bars to keep him from threatening her, and she's quite capable of screaming if she needs to.

"Good evening, monsieur." Cosette keeps her hands folded properly in front of her as she approaches the gate. "Are you lost?"

"I—no, I—I—" The man takes a step back, as though she's a threat, and his eyes dart to the left and right as though ensuring he has an escape path.

It's a strange way for a man to behave. Tilting her head slightly, Cosette studies this stranger whose clothes she knows far too intimately. "I'm sorry if I startled you, monsieur. I just thought I could possibly be of assistance."

"You didn't startle me." The man shakes his head, his fine brown hair settling in a cloud around his face. Hazel-brown eyes stare out at her, earnest, eager, and she feels her breath catch in her throat.

She knows those eyes. She saw them looking at her this morning from Wolf's face. "Have I met you somewhere before, Monsieur?"

"You—" The man swallows hard, seeming to find his voice as he settles his feet firmly in the snow as though facing down a foe. "You may have seen me around. I've been working with my dog. He's a big mutt, about this tall at the shoulders, smart as a whip but occasionally prone to doing foolhardy things like running away."

"Oh." Cosette nods, vaguely disappointed to have such a simple explanation for why his eyes are familiar. "Was he missing this morning?"

"He was. The rascal spent the night out on the town. It seems that some kind soul took care of him, though, since he wasn't hungry when I finally retrieved him. I've been going up and down the street, looking to find the person who did so that I can repay them. I don't suppose you've any idea who might have taken pity on a stray in the night?" The man stares at her with those too-familiar eyes, eyes that seem to look right through hers and down into her soul, to read the joy of this morning's time with Wolf too easily.

Turning away, suddenly feeling uneasy, as though this man somehow knows more about her than she does about him, she nods. "We took care of a dog last night. He was a beautiful creature, and quite friendly. I certainly wouldn't mind seeing him again."

The man hesitates, suddenly looking trapped and uneasy again. "Perhaps that could be arranged. For now, will you simply accept my humble thanks? There are many who don't show pity even to their fellow humans at this time of year. Showing pity to a dog takes a great deal of kindness."

"It was no hardship. And I fear there may be people more eager to care for a dog than for their fellow man, if the actions of some at the parish are to be believed." Cosette finds her right hand, encased in a glove to protect it from the cold, resting against the bars separating her from the stranger. She doesn't remember putting it there, but after a second's hesitation she decides not to remove it. There's still nothing that the stranger could do to truly harm her… and, perhaps, it would be good to feel the touch of another human being besides Papa.

"I will repay your kindness." The stranger continues to stare at her, as though she were the most fascinating creature in the world. His left hand rises, brushes gently against her gloved fingers, so gently that she can't even properly say if she felt it. "I am, unfortunately, short on funds at the moment, but when I am able I will definitely repay your kindness."

"There's no need." Shaking her head, Cosette tries not to blush or react to his touch at all. "As I said, your dog was quite the gentleman, and I thoroughly enjoyed his company."

"Could I ask you something important?" The man speaks with an intense gravity, his eyebrows drawn together as he continues to watch her, the fingers of his left hand that had touched her rubbing together.

"You may ask anything." Smiling, Cosette finally pulls her hand back to her side. "There's a chance that I may not wish to or be able to answer, though."

"What's your name?"

"Cosette." She breathes the name softly, but he smiles as though he heard it clearly. "Well, technically Euphrasie, but my mother called me Cosette. It's the name I'm more familiar with and used to."

"Cosette, then." The man smiles and draws a deep breath, his eyes seeming to light from within. "It's a beautiful name."

"And do you have a name, monsieur?" She can't help but smile in turn, his joy and energy contagious. "Or must I simply call you the dog man?"

"Marius." His hand wraps around one of the bars. "My name is Marius, but you may call me anything you like."

"I think I should like to call you Marius, then." Cosette allows her fingers to glance across his before taking a step back. "I should get back to the house before my father worries. I should very much like to see you and your dog again sometime, though, Marius."

"I think I will be able to arrange that, Cosette." Marius' expression is grave as he watches her walk away, and it's disconcerting how very much his eyes look like Wolf's. "I'm sure that Wolf would like it, as well."

"Another day, then." Cosette forces herself to take another step back and turn, though all she wants is to stay at the gate and talk with this stranger with his strange eyes. "Take care of yourself, Monsieur Marius. Try to ensure that your dog doesn't make off with your clothes again."

He reddens at the jibe, the color contrasting prettily with his serious demeanor as he watches her depart.

How _did_ the clothes that Wolf had been carrying end up on Marius' body? It makes no sense. Perhaps they aren't the same, after all. Perhaps she's misremembering.

Perhaps he doesn't have the exact same eyes as Wolf. Perhaps they are a similar shade. Perhaps that's even why he chose Wolf as his dog.

And perhaps there's a perfectly good reason for a man who can't afford to darn his clothes properly to have such a beautiful creature as his pet. Perhaps he uses Wolf in his livelihood. Perhaps he is a hunter or a tracker or even a breeder of beautiful Wolf-dogs.

But then…

He called the dog Wolf. What are the chances that he would have named the dog the same thing that she did? Well, true, the dog does have a rather wolf-like appearance, but still…

Marius is a mystery, and one she intends to explore thoroughly if given half a chance.

XXX

The pack disperses while Grantaire is still staring numbly at the floor, his mind trying to process what happened during the trial—trying to process that it's over, that nothing terrible has happened, that the worst didn't come to pass.

Something _wonderful_ happened, instead, and he allows his gaze to travel over to Enjolras, who is currently in the process of handing Bahorel over to Jehan, the three wolves smiling and laughing in easy camaraderie.

As if he can feel the weight of Grantaire's stare, Enjolras looks over and excuses himself from the other two wolves.

Grantaire turns his gaze back to the floor. He watches Enjolras' shadow as the alpha approaches him, feeling his body react properly, showing subservience even as his mind continues to reel.

"Are you all right?" Enjolras' hand lands on his shoulder. "There's no need to worry, Grantaire. Badeau already gave you more punishment than was proper for speaking your mind. Having an opinion is no crime in this pack."

"You included me." The words are a bare whispered mumble, too low for even their ears to pick out properly.

"Hm?" Enjolras bends down, putting them both on an even level. "Could you repeat that?"

"When you told—showed—Bahorel the pack's vote… you included me."

"I did, didn't I?" Enjolras makes a soft, considering sound. "I'm sorry if you didn't want me to. The bond potential's there—it's been there since yesterday, and when I open myself like I did to read their opinions it sometimes tries to snap into place. Don't worry, though. If you want to leave, you still can. You're not actually pack yet."

"No! I don't…" Swallowing hard, Grantaire fights to inch his gaze up to meet Enjolras'. "Thank you. I'm sorry that I got him into trouble, and thank you."

Enjolras is quiet, his expression distant and slightly troubled. "You shouldn't thank me for doing what all alphas—what all people—should do. Every man has a voice. All people should be able to speak, dominant or submissive, human or wolf, male or female."

"I would actually be very glad if Badeau would learn to be quiet and listen rather than speak." Grantaire tries to smile, hoping to lighten the mood.

"Yes." Enjolras smiles, as well, and Grantaire's heart sores. "Some men do need to learn to listen more than they need to learn to speak. And some who speak need to learn, period. That's why Combeferre's ideas about free education for everyone are rather attractive. You, I think, need to practice both speaking _and_ listening."

"I've a tendency to talk even when I shouldn't, if you ask most people. And I'm actually quite good at listening." A self-deprecating smile slips onto Grantaire's face. "I could listen to you speak all day."

"And do you actually hear what I say?" Enjolras' fingers glance against the bottom of Grantaire's chin, bringing them briefly into eye contact again. "I know you're eager for a pack. I know you're eager to belong, and that I've impressed you and dazzled you without actually meaning to. I know that if I asked, right now, you would gladly take the opportunity to become pack. But do you know what it actually _means_ to me? Do you truly hear what I say, and do you truly want to risk your life for our beliefs? Because that's what I will ask of you, just as I do all of the rest."

"Yes." Grantaire nods, trying not to shake, trying not to beg or plead or cry or otherwise humiliate himself. "If you would let me be part of the pack, I would do anything, including die."

Enjolras' expression falls, disappointment showing for a moment before being hidden away. "Find what _you _want, Grantaire. Find what _you'll _fight for, and bring it to the pack. Then you'll truly be one of us."

Grantaire stares in dismay at the alpha as he rises and walks towards the hall, making his way through the pack. Enjolras touches Courfeyrac's shoulder, ruffles Feuilly's hair, whispers something in Bossuet's ear that earns a grin from the man, and finally turns down the hallway that leads to his room.

The joy is still there, the pleasure of being almost-pack, but it's tainted again by the bitterness of disappointing the one wolf whose regard he wants.

Closing his eyes and sighing in frustration, Grantaire decides he's spent far too much time as a sober human today.

XXX

Marius waits until it's fully dark to slip back into the garden.

It's foolish.

It's idiotic.

It's a death-wish, almost, his courting discovery like this.

But he wants to see her again. He wants to speak with her again. He wants to _play_ with her again, to have her laugh and smile at him, be completely open with him as she had been when he was in wolf-shape.

He also hasn't found anywhere else safe to stay yet, and the garden in wolf-shape is the warmest place currently available to him as accommodations.

Sighing, he strips out of his clothes and hides them in the densest part of the garden that he can find, where they hopefully won't attract the eye of the lady of the house. Sinking down on all fours, he allows the transformation to sweep over him again.

Bounding up and shaking himself off when it's over, he turns his face to the sky and barely suppresses a howl.

He has someplace relatively warm and protected to stay. He will likely be fed again in the morning. He will have the girl to play with.

Really, asking anything more of the black night would be asking to buy trouble.

XXX

Combeferre stops just inside the door to his room, a smile slowly spreading across his face as he takes in the somewhat unexpected view.

Enjolras is curled at the foot of the bed, still human, in his black pants and an open white shirt but without any socks or shoes. Blond hair falls across the female's face, hiding any possible view of his eyes. The alpha has chosen a curled position that would seem more comfortable were he wolf-shaped, but he seems to be sleeping soundly anyway, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

Slipping out of his own shoes, Combeferre pads silently across the room and crawls up onto the bed next to Enjolras. He can tell that Enjolras wakes the moment his hand touches the bed, a slight heightening and thrumming of the pack-bond between them and just the barest hitch in his breathing, but Enjolras stays still as Combeferre settles next to him.

"Hello." Enjolras' tone is quiet, sleep-slurred, and his eyes remain closed.

"Hello yourself." Combeferre reaches out and slowly shifts his alpha until Enjolras' head is resting in his lap. A slight thrill goes through him, the wolf in the back of his brain whimpering briefly that this isn't proper, but then Enjolras' blue eyes open, he smiles, and everything's right with the world again. "I must say I wasn't expecting you to be here, though in retrospect I shouldn't be surprised. Even you have your limits."

"I always seem to surprise myself and everyone around me when I find them, though." A smile is lost in a yawn as Enjolras blinks himself back to full awareness. "It's all right. It was good for the pack. I'll gladly pay with exhaustion and a bit of a headache if it helps put old demons to rest."

"He should have known you'd never try to bind him like that." Combeferre strokes the hair away from Enjolras' face, his hands moving to and massaging his alpha's temples.

"Should he have?" Enjolras sighs contentedly, his muscles relaxing as Combeferre's fingers work their magic. "His birth pack tried to kill him. I wouldn't be surprised if other alphas attempted to bind him, to both their detriments. And I… if I thought I needed to, for his safety or ours… perhaps one day I might try it. But not today. Not for Badeau. I won't give him the satisfaction."

"Instead you'll read all of us more deeply than most alphas ever could, hold it in your mind for several minutes while fighting, and then show it to him through the pack-bond while narrating to the rest of us." Combeferre finds his smile fading as he tries to imagine the concentration and power required to do all of that. No wonder Enjolras' tired. Any other alpha would be mad or dead trying something like that, not merely spent. "You could have found a simpler method of reassurance, you know."

"He needed to see." Enjolras murmurs the words, his voice already sleep-slurred again. "He needed to _feel_ it, Combeferre, that we aren't afraid, that we're on his side. Some more on his side than I would like, because he didn't handle the incident as well as he should have, but I'll deal with that when the stray isn't exacerbating every little scuffle to a matter of pack-splitting importance."

"It's not his fault." Combeferre stops, startled to find himself speaking in the stray's defense. "We're the ones who want to give him time to decide. He'd ask for admittance to the pack now, if we gave him the opportunity. And he can't help that having him here, an outsider but not an outsider, makes all our wolves jittery and nervous."

"I never said I blamed him." Enjolras opens his eyes again, his expression suddenly grave and awake and very, very tired. "I don't. I just… wish he could be more than what he is. I _see_ it in him, what he could be, the ally that he could be, but it's not there yet. It hasn't come to fruition, and I'm not sure it will ever be able to, not with how scarred and cynical his soul is."

"If you don't want him in the pack, just say so." Combeferre moves from massaging Enjolras' temples to working at the tense muscles in his neck. "If you don't want to drive him away, I'm quite capable of doing it."

"I'm not that callous." Enjolras shivers, allowing his eyes to slip closed again. "I'll accept him by the end of the week, if the pack wants it and he hasn't thought better of it. White Lady, Combeferre, when did you become so _good_ at this?"

"When a certain young wolf I was traveling with had a bad habit of almost picking up pack members and then having to sever the connections when they didn't actually want to join him, resulting in many a night spent with a sore head and a tired soul." Ruffling Enjolras' hair before smoothing it out again, he tries and fails to lean his head down to rub against Enjolras' shoulder. Having hands is good, but there are times when being able to combine wolf and human elements would be even more useful. Those experiments had also resulted in a sore wolf with a splitting headache—or backache or leg ache or arm ache or whole body ache—so it's one dream he'll have to put on permanent hiatus until additional information becomes available.

"I'm glad you agreed to come with me." Enjolras' hand finds Combeferre's, his grip firm and warm. "Are you happy with what we've created? With who we've found and chosen? With what we're doing?"

"Yes." The word is a quiet whisper, for Enjolras' ears only as Combeferre returns his grasp. Touching his pack-bond to Enjolras, he opens his mind, allowing his alpha to see the joy he feels as beta of this pack, his contentedness with Courfeyrac as his mate, his determination to continue and complete their work.

Enjolras sighs, his eyes closed and a beatific smile on his face as he opens his mind in turn. Combeferre draws in a sharp breath—even as tired as Enjolras is, there's a fire and warmth to Enjolras' thoughts and drives that Combeferre's never felt with anyone else. It's a good fire, though, and he sighs as it flows through him, over him.

"Well." Courfeyrac's voice is a splash of cold water in his face, and Combeferre finds himself blinking up in surprise at his mate's displeased face. "I'm glad that you, at least, are enjoying yourselves."

Enjolras struggles into a sitting position, though he pales as he does so. Combeferre keeps a hand on his alpha's shoulder, feeling the bone-aching weariness slip across the pack-bond between them as it hadn't before. It's impossible for Enjolras to hide it from him now, not after how close their minds were a moment before. There's no trace of the exhaustion in Enjolras' voice when he speaks, though. "I'm sorry, Courfeyrac. I didn't intend to hurt Grantaire, and if you want me to leave Combeferre alone I will."

Courfeyrac continues to frown at them, though his expression softens and Combeferre can feel his anger shredding away to a quiet frustration as he looks at Enjolras. "I'm not jealous of you. I'd be a fool if I was. He was your first and he's your beta. What we have is no more or less important because he loves you, too. But I thought you were being purposefully obtuse or cruel with Grantaire, not realizing you were simply too tired to deal with him properly, and _that _I would call you to task on without any hesitancy."

"What's Grantaire doing?" Enjolras moves to the edge of the bed.

Courfeyrac's hand on his shoulder keeps him from getting up, Courfeyrac's head tucked as low as it will go to keep there from being any offense in his stopping his alpha. "He'll be all right. He's sulking in wolf form while Jehan and Bahorel attempt to cheer him up. There may be some broken furniture in the morning if Bahorel gets tired of cheer and instead turns to physical coercion to snap him out of it, but that's a better option than you running around pretending you're fine when you're just about ready to pass out from exhaustion."

Enjolras hesitates a bare second. "It's not pride. I'm their alpha. I have to appear strong and in control, or their wolves get nervous."

"I know." Courfeyrac climbs onto the bed on Enjolras' other side, sandwiching their alpha between him and Combeferre. "Which is why the three of us are going to sleep together in here, and when you're better able to think clearly in the morning you'll be kind to Grantaire, and everything will continue on as though nothing happened. Acceptable?"

Without waiting for a response Courfeyrac buries his face against his alpha's chest, sending them both crashing back into Combeferre. There's a moment of quiet, during which Combeferre can feel Courfeyrac's attention and magic focused on his pack-bond with Enjolras, though their own mate-bond stays quiescent and silent.

Enjolras laughs, the remaining tension draining from his body, and wraps his arms around his gamma even as his eyes drift closed again.

Combeferre waits for Enjolras' breathing to take on the easy regularity of sleep again before drawing Courfeyrac's attention to him with a sharp tug on their mate-bond.

"Mm?" Courfeyrac's head raises just enough so that he can peer at Combeferre over Enjolras.

"What did you tell him or show him?" How had he made Enjolras laugh, something that so few people were able to do?

Courfeyrac just smiles, a mixture of fondness and smug satisfaction coming to Combeferre through their bond. "It wouldn't be funny now. The timing's all wrong."

Combeferre scowls at his mate, but Courfeyrac shows no sign of caring as he settles back down again. After a second Combeferre allows the scowl to fade, accepting that his curiosity won't be sated this time. Allowing his affection for Courfeyrac and the peace he feels being here, with his alpha and his mate, to trickle across their bond, he carefully reaches over Enjolras to touch Courfeyrac's arm. "You know that what he said is true. He's my alpha, but you're my mate."

"I know." Courfeyrac's fingers tease along Combeferre's wrist. "As much as it means anything in this pack, with him stopping us from enjoying the fall."

Combeferre frowns. "It means a great deal. It means I'm tied as closely to you as I am to him."

"I know, Combeferre." Courfeyrac's fingers pause, clasp him tight for a moment before continuing their slow exploration. "That was a complaint about the lack of fall, not about your affections. You're a good mate; he's a good alpha. I'm lucky to have you both. Now, let's go to sleep so Enjolras can sleep and stop pretending that he's not hearing this rather embarrassing conversation."

Combeferre realizes, belatedly, that his pack-bond to Enjolras is indeed humming with conscious thought again. Settling down with a sigh, he tries to banish any embarrassment in the scents and sounds and feel of these two people that he loves dearly.

Here in their home, with the faint sounds of their pack echoing through the halls, it's easy to be happy. It's easy to revel in his fainter bonds to his pack-mates, to borrow from Feuilly's contented joy as he experiments with a new type of paintbrush, to revel in the wildness and power that Bahorel's dual heritage has afforded him, to borrow the low but ever-burning flame of passion and eye for beauty from Jehan, to feel mirrored in his own soul Musichetta's fondness for and protectiveness of her two males…

Allowing his mind to drift through the subtle hints of emotion trickling in from the rest of the pack, he decides once more that they're the best group of wolves he and Enjolras could ever have hoped to gather.

And one day, thanks to this amazing pack that they've built, the whole world will be a better place.


	11. Part Ten: A Morning's Studies

_Part Ten: A Morning's Studies_

Wolf is there again the next morning.

Cosette smiles as he bounds up to her, his tail wagging furiously, his tongue lolling from his mouth. Never mind that he shouldn't be here. Never mind that it's impossible, that he shouldn't have been able to get through the gate. Never mind that his eyes are the exact same shade as his master's.

She's happy to see him, and solving the mysteries can wait for a little bit.

Setting the bowl of food down for him, she retreats just a step, her arms crossed in front of her. She wants to pet him. She wants to play with him, as they did yesterday.

She wants him to answer her questions, to explain what's happening.

Wolf stares up at her with his too-human eyes, his tongue once more scraping the bowl clean of even a trace of food. Reaching down tentatively, ready to retreat at the slightest hint of a growl or showing of his teeth, she strokes the fur between his ears.

Would a normal dog stand still for this? Would a normal dog be so patient and kind with her? She doesn't know, and it irks her to be unable to either add his behavior to the list of mysteries or dismiss it as normal.

"I will find out what's going on, Monsieur Wolf." She murmurs the words, continuing to tease at his soft ears as they flick back and forth. "There is something odd about you and your master, and I won't stop until I've determined what it is."

Wolf slinks back from her, his ears flat against his head, a low whine rising from his throat.

"Oh…" Pulling her hand back to her chest, Cosette stares in concern at the suddenly cowering creature before her. What has she done to frighten or upset him so? "Wolf? What is it?"

Wolf continues to whine low in his throat, his body held close to the ground, his eyes peering at her imploringly.

"Wolf… I'm not going to hurt you or your master." Extending her hand again, she crouches down to peer into his eyes. "No matter what I find, I swear, I've no intention of hurting him or you."

Wolf continues to watch her warily, though he at least stops making that terrible noise. Stretching her fingers out, she inches her way forward until she can stroke the side of his face again.

"There we go." Scratching behind his ear causes Wolf to relax, turning his head away from her. "There's a good Wolf. No need to fear, my beautiful creature. No need to fear _me_, you silly thing. I give you food."

Stretching his front legs forward, Wolf huffs out a sound that could have been a sigh. Bounding away from her, he picks up a stick and turns towards her with his ears pricked enquiringly.

Holding out her hand and standing, Cosette smiles fondly at the beast. "All right. Just for a little bit, it's colder out than it was yesterday, but let's play for a while."

XXX

Grantaire wakes to the same chaos as the day before, but he remembers more clearly where he is despite the fact that his head is pounding. It really isn't fair that his head's hurting _more _when he didn't drink much than it usually does after he drinks a great deal. Shifting back to his human form, he rubs at his temples and blinks blurry eyes until the den comes back into focus.

"Oh, good, you're up." Joly sounds far too cheerful for how early in the morning it is. He _looks_ far too cheerful as Grantaire forces his eyes to focus on the other male's face. "If you could get dressed fairly quickly, I'd appreciate it. I need to be heading in to class in about twenty minutes."

"So I'm going to class again?" Clearing his throat, Grantaire stands slowly. "Are you sure it wouldn't be better to just leave me here?"

"Quite sure." Joly's hand on his shoulder is gentle, and Grantaire doesn't mind that it tips his head down into a submissive position. "You need to get to know more of the city. You need to get a feel for our schedules and for who is and who isn't our ally. Besides, I would very much like to have a chance to talk with you and get to know you better before I have to vote on whether I want you as a member of the pack or not."

"Right." Grantaire smiles, trying to keep the expression from having a bitter edge. At least Joly's under no delusions about whether or not Grantaire will ask for admission to join the pack. "I should get dressed, then."

"Grantaire." Joly's hand falls on his arm again, stopping him from heading toward the stairs. The wolf's brows are drawn together in concern, and his voice sounds stronger, somehow, more certain than it usually does. "Did something happen? Are you not feeling well?"

"My head hurts." It's true, even if it's not the reason that he's being poor company. Or not the only reason, at least.

"How badly?" Between one breath and the next Joly has managed to shove him back down into a sitting position and has turned his head back toward the fire. "You're not feverish. You have quite the bruise on your face, but your eyes are still reacting properly. Where's the pain localized? When did it start? Do you have any other odd feelings—any numbness, has your vision been odd at all?"

"Joly." Musichetta's voice cuts through Joly's stream of questions. Wrapping his arms around his mate from behind, the female bites gently at Joly's throat. "He's not dying. He just has a headache."

"You can't ever be sure of that." Relaxing back against his mate, Joly releases his hold on Grantaire to reach up and grasp hold of Musichetta. "If you don't ask questions, you can miss important illnesses."

"Grantaire." Musichetta raises one eyebrow, peering at him around Joly's shoulder. "Are you dying?"

"Not unless you count dying for a drink." Smiling in turn, Grantaire runs a hand through his hair, trying to straighten it out. "Or unless your pack has designs on killing me, but given Joly's apparent concern for my health I very much doubt that."

"If you hurry you can grab a drink before you have to leave." Musichetta gives a sympathetic smile. "It may help with your headache."

"I'll take you up on that offer." Inclining his head, Grantaire edges his way past the two more dominant wolves. "I'll be down in a moment."

It doesn't take him long to dress. He only has one set of clothing still. Thanks to Badeau it's a set that received a very good cleaning yesterday to remove the traces of blood, so Grantaire shrugs into the clothing without a second thought. If he's going to stay with this well-dressed pack, he should probably purchase another set of clothes. That's something he can discuss with Jehan or Courfeyrac or one of the others later, though.

Joly and Courfeyrac are chatting when he comes back downstairs. Musichetta offers him a glass of wine, and he downs it in one swallow. Sighing in appreciation, he hands the glass back to the dominant female. "Thank you. You show an old stray great mercy."

"I show a soon-to-be pack member kindness. It's no more than most wolves would do. Besides, you'll be looking after Joly for me today."

"Ah…" Grantaire shakes his head, ducking his chin down low. "He'll be doing the looking after, I'm quite sure."

"We'll see. Just try to enjoy yourself today, Grantaire. And remember that if anyone gives you trouble, you're under our protection." Musichetta brushes against his arm, a comforting gesture, before once more moving to and embracing Joly.

"Grantaire."

Grantaire freezes at the sound of that voice—so simple and yet so commanding, even without any alpha power behind it—on his name. Turning slowly, he feels his heart both soar and drop as he responds properly to Enjolras, his head inclining, his chin tilting slightly to expose his neck. Enjolras is very simply dressed, in a rumpled white shirt and black pants that look like the clothes he was wearing yesterday. His blond hair is also sleep-tousled, and Grantaire realizes once more how utterly, unearthly handsome this pack's alpha is.

"Relax today." Enjolras pads forward on silent, unshod feet to touch Grantaire's arm. "I know you've been under a great deal of stress trying to adjust to our pack. What happened with Badeau yesterday shouldn't have, and I'll be sure to discuss it with him when next we meet. But for today, just take some time to really get to know the pack and what we do. All right?"

Grantaire nods, all of his attention focused on the small spot where Enjolras' fingers touch him. When it's clear that Enjolras wants more of a reaction, he forces his tongue to move, though the words come out in a whisper. "All right."

Enjolras frowns, just slightly, and glances toward Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac bounds away from Joly and throws his arm around Grantaire's shoulders. "Now, run along, my little stray. Joly hates to be late, and I'm sure you're going to learn a great deal of fascinating information at his classes. Just do try not to eat any of the bodies. It's rather difficult to explain, even as a prank or a dare."

Grantaire stares at the higher-ranked wolf, an expression of horror slowly working its way across his face as his brain processes the information. "Wait, what bodies?"

There's no reply but a smile and a wave from Courfeyrac as he shoves Grantaire towards Joly and the door.

Joly takes his arm, pulling him out the door and towards the street, and Grantaire realizes that it's far too late to protest. With a soft sigh, he gives in and follows the other male stoically, trying not to imagine what he might have to suffer through this morning.

There's a good chance that he'll find these classes more comprehensible than poetry, at least.

XXX

Cosette chases Wolf about the garden, ducking around and under branches, laughing breathlessly at his antics as he dances first one way and then another. It's so easy to entertain the great dog! He seems happy just to be in her company, and any time she actively interacts with him it seems to send him into paroxysms of doggy mirth that are delightful to watch.

Chasing him around the garden and allowing him to chase her grants her time to examine the garden without making him nervous. It's during one of these romps that she notices the clothing, hidden more carefully and cleverly today than it had been yesterday.

She doesn't pause in her dash around the bush, not giving Wolf any sign that she's seen the clothes. She thinks she recognizes them, though, even from just a cursory glance.

Why are Marius' clothes in her garden again?

Why is Marius' dog in her garden again?

She doesn't know how, but she's determined that she's going to get answers from him the next time she sees him.

XXX

Grantaire stares down in horrified fascination at the body displayed in front of them. The room that they're in is more like a theatre than the classrooms that he saw with Jehan yesterday, with rows of chairs banking up and a stage with a large chalkboard taking up the front of the class. In front of the chalkboard is an older man, perhaps forty or fifty, and in front of the man is the remains of a human who probably stopped breathing several days ago. The cold has preserved his body nicely, and there isn't too much of a scent of rot to him, but Grantaire can taste the odor of old meat starting to build even over the stink of all the humans surrounding them.

The professor gestures down at the corpse in front of him. "As you can see, the cold has done a remarkable job of preserving the body after death, even as it caused great damage prior to death. The digits—"

Swallowing hard, Grantaire turns from the body to Joly, who is currently frowning and scribbling down notes in a small book. He keeps his voice down when he talks, not wanting to draw attention to his presence, somehow certain that he really, really shouldn't be here. "Is this… normal?"

Joly glances up at him, and a look of chagrin crosses his face. "It happens frequently, when they have interesting things to show us. I'm sorry, Grantaire. Normally there are fewer bodies in the middle of the week than at either end—people seem most eager to murder each other at the start and end of the week, at least, though they die of other causes often enough. I would have warned you if I thought there would really be bodies. You're _not_ feeling too hungry, are you?"

"I know better than to eat a man in front of other humans, Joly." Grantaire tries to keep the indignation out of his voice but doesn't entirely succeed. Just because he's a stray doesn't mean he's an idiot. "Besides, your pack's been feeding me well, better than I deserve, really. I'm not starving and desperate for meat. I'm not going to jump down there are start eating the frozen man."

"Good." Joly turns back to the professor currently gesticulating with one of the dead man's hands. "Because we're going to open the abdomen shortly, and Courfeyrac was right that it would be very awkward to explain why you ate a man's liver in front of the medical class."

Grantaire sighs, rocking back on his heels and closing his eyes.

He can already tell that this is going to be a very, very long day.

XXX

Joly watches the stray bite into his steak with a sigh that seems to come from every corner of his body. Smiling slightly, Joly takes a bite of his own sandwich before initiating conversation. "I really am sorry about the surprise cadaver. I'm glad that they do it, because the only way to really learn medicine is to see it, but I'm sure it can be… disorienting and confusing to someone who isn't used to it."

"'s all right." Grantaire takes another large bite before downing his entire drink in one long swallow. "I don't mind. It was rather fascinating, I suppose. I didn't realize how much humans could tell from a corpse even without a good sense of smell. It would be far easier for them if they could smell like we can, but their ingenuity constantly surprises me."

"Sometimes it's easier." Joly stares into his own drink for a moment. "With the dead ones it's easier for us. With live ones, or with corpses that have been dead for a very long time… sometimes having our senses isn't as helpful as it seems like it should be."

"I'm sorry, Joly. I didn't think." The stray lowers his fork and knife, chagrin filling his features. "I suppose it would be difficult to smell and hear so much better in a human hospital. Why do you…?"

"Because I want to help them." Raising his eyes, Joly studies the stray as he speaks, watching the male's reactions. "I want to be able to help our people, and I want to be able to help the humans, as well."

"Does it actually help our people?" Grantaire frowns, tilting his head to the side. After a moment too long he inclines his head and his eyes in a submissive posture. "Aren't there differences between us?"

"There are. There's quite a few differences, especially with regards to our Changed forms, and I've also gotten a fair amount of useful information from animal caretakers and from older wolves. Some things that are toxic to humans are safe for us; some things that are safe for us are very toxic to humans. And we are, overall, harder to kill than most humans. Especially if we're able to Change or if we have an alpha there to lend us power, our bodies can heal faster and much more efficiently from wounds that would kill a human."

"So why bother with medicine?" There's genuine curiosity rather than censure or disdain in Grantaire's voice.

"Because I don't want to be helpless." Joly can feel his fingers tightening on his own silverware as he considers the events that led him to be here. "What if there _isn't_ an alpha around? What if there's silver in the wound, and the wolf can't Change? What if the alpha is too worn and weary to heal any more?"

"I would hate to be there if Enjolras were too weary to heal his wolves." Grantaire murmurs the words, a hint of horror in his expression.

And Joly is suddenly a child again, a pup sitting at his father's side, and he understands what it means as the alpha turns away from his father. He understands, instinctively, what the scent of rot already emanating from his father's stomach means, though his human mind flinches away from the knowledge. The alpha will fix things. The alpha will heal it. Even if the bullet is silver—and what humans used silver bullets anymore, _really_, who believed the old tales—between his mother and the alpha everything will be all right.

But his mother had collapsed hours before, though her fingers are still curled around his father's, and the alpha's face is drained of color and covered in sweat, and Joly feels his own voice rise with the rest of the pack's as they cry his father into the hands of the black night.

Maybe it would have been different if they could have called a doctor to remove the bullet. Maybe it would have been different if they had a surgeon on hand, someone they could trust, someone who wouldn't be surprised to see fur sprout and fade as his father's body tried and failed repeatedly to Change.

"Joly?" Grantaire's hand is calloused and warm as it slides overtop of Joly's. "I am sorry if I brought up old wounds. Forgive me."

"There's nothing to forgive." Joly smiles at Grantaire, impressed once more with the stray's concern for offense dealt to others. "I lost my father as a child. I know better than to over-estimate an alpha's power. And though I've no doubt that Enjolras would do all in his power to save us, I would much prefer we not have to put that kind of toll on his body and mind, especially not if there is something I can do to try to assist him. Besides, if Paris rises in rebellion, there will be humans standing and falling beside us. They have no alpha to call on. Do we simply watch our allies die?"

"It's better than what some wolves would do with a human bleeding at their side." Grantaire raises his hands to ward off any protest at his black humor, a smile on his face. "All jesting aside, though, I think it a worthy cause, if not one that many wolves would be able to weather."

"We'll see how well I weather it." Joly takes another bite of his sandwich, trying to shake off the worst of the memory. "Bossuet and Musichetta say that it's making me more paranoid. I say that a bit of paranoia can be a very fine thing."

Grantaire finishes his second drink, setting it down with a satisfied sigh. "How did you meet them?"

"Oh, now that may be a long story." Blushing slightly, Joly decides that it's easier to stare at his food than at the stray.

"Tell me however much of it you'd like." Settling his chin in his hand, Grantaire gives a bright grin. "Enjolras told me to get to know the pack. I'm quite certain that there's a fascinating story in how he collected all of you."

"We actually approached him." A smile spreads across Joly's face as he remembers their first meeting with the strange new alpha. "We had already formed our trio, and it had resulted in all three of us being promptly evicted from the packs we were with at the time—Bossuet and I from my pack and Musichetta from his. I didn't mind too much—I had only been with them for a few months at that point, and Bossuet had only been with them for about two months—but it meant that the three of us were homeless and packless, and with only a month or so to go before fall came on. I… may have been a little worried about our ability to handle ourselves and our bonds during the fall without an alpha there to steady us. Bossuet was taking it rather well, saying that what happened would happen and we'd handle it as best we could, and Musichetta insisted that he could handle us and our bonds as an alpha would, which may very well have been true, but I…"

"You were panicking." Grantaire smiles, raising his eyebrows. "Right?"

"I may have begged him to take us." Joly knows that he's blushing, but he doesn't mind too much. "Even before I told him my name. He had Combeferre and Courfeyrac at that point, and I'd heard that he looked more kindly upon most differences than other alphas did. He was strong—well, you know that, but the way he took down Armand was legendary at the time. This young alpha came out of nowhere, barely eighteen and looking like a much less mature pup, and within two minutes he had Armand pinned to the ground and Armand's pack-bonds in his control. And what did he do? He gave them back to Armand, gave everything back to him, as long as Armand agreed to allow all wolves who wanted to use the university. It seemed like he was too good to be true, too impossible to actually be real, but I was already living the impossible, so…"

"How did he respond?" There's a yearning underlying Grantaire's tone, a sadness to his smile, and Joly feels a protective surge of affection for the stray.

Clearing his throat and his mind, pushing away the protective instincts that he's surprised to find he has, Joly smiles again as he remembers that day. "He told me to stand up and look at him. When I had, after a brief battle with my wolf because looking _him _in the eyes felt like the closest thing to human blasphemy I'd ever done, he asked me very gravely what my name was and who my two mates were. Then he asked me what my views on humanity were."

"What did you tell him?" There's an eagerness to Grantaire's question that makes Joly's heart fall, because he's not going to get the answer he needs from this story.

"I told him the truth." Joly speaks gently. "I told him that I was studying to be a doctor, and that I intended to treat both humans and wolves. I told him that Bossuet was studying law, and that part of his interest in law was an interest in ending oppression and the abuses of the criminal justice system, both as it damages humans and as it's a threat to our people. I told him Musichetta may have helped separate several rich humans from the notion that those with less money or power than them were there to be abused."

"Oh." Grantaire seems to wilt slightly. "So you were already strange even before—well, not strange per se, but—"

"We had ideas that didn't quite fit with the majority of wolves' opinions, yes." Joly reaches over to clasp Grantaire's forearm, a gesture of comfort. "Our ideas and opinions weren't nearly as well-formed then as they became after we joined Enjolras' pack, but it was easy enough for us to ally ourselves with his goals. Since then I think all of us have come to embrace his ideals quite happily, though Musichetta worries sometimes that we're going to find ourselves fighting more than even we can handle."

"Given how carefully your pack seems to plan and move, I find that highly unlikely." Biting into his steak with renewed vigor, Grantaire swallows a piece without chewing. Wincing slightly, he follows it up with a sip from his latest drink. Sometimes wolf instincts didn't work very well with human shapes. "Though I can see his worries, what with you making enemies with half of the wolves and humans in Paris."

"Are you sure that you wouldn't be happier with another pack, Grantaire?" Joly tries to ask the question gently, though he knows there's no gentle way to do so. "What we're doing… it's important work. It's something that needs to happen, for our people and for the humans. But it is dangerous. None of us will try to tell you otherwise."

"Even if another pack would take me—and that's a very large if—I don't want to join any other pack." Grantaire pauses, his eyes on the table, his hands clasping together. "I… like hearing you talk. I like being in a pack that _cares_ so deeply about things. I like being with people who don't seem to be threatened by my oddities. I like your pack, Joly, and even if I can't say I'd die for your causes yet, I'll fight for _you_, for him, and maybe if I listen long enough I'll care enough to fight for your causes, too."

Joly nods, slowly, and reaches over again to clasp Grantaire's arm. "That's all any of us could ask of you, my friend."

Grantaire accepts the comfort, his fingers clasping Joly's arm fiercely for several long seconds before he lets go with a smile that still seems slightly bittersweet. "So how did you meet your mates?"

"Bossuet found me while I was courting Musichetta." Straightening, Joly smiles fondly as he thinks back on that first meeting. "He was wolf-shaped, slightly less mangy and fur-tattered than he seems now, but there were human children tormenting him. They'd managed to tie a bottle to his tail, and were poking him with sticks. He was tolerating everything with more aplomb than most wolves would have. After I chased the children away, I took him home with me. We were both still young enough that he wasn't much of a threat to the pack—a young stray, one who might want to join. There was a rather amusing and far-fetched tale that he had about ending up in that situation involving a cat, a milkmaid, a fire, and his clothing, so he had to borrow some of mine. From there…"

"Things just happened?" Grantaire's smile is far too knowing for someone who doesn't have a trace of a mate-bond in his scent.

"Things just happened. I introduced him to Musichetta, and the three of us just… fit. When I felt the mate-bond potential spring up with _both_ of them…" Shaking his head, Joly sighs. "I was horrified. I didn't want to have to choose between the two of them. I didn't want to insult or drive one off by choosing the other. I just wanted the three of us to stay together, to be happy together the way that we had been."

"Was it your idea to try what you did?"

"No." Shaking his head, Joly gives a rueful smile. "It was Musichetta's idea. I was the one who was most worried about attempting something like we did. What if it failed? What if we did something terrible to each other? What if we made it impossible for us to properly mate-bond with anyone? What if we killed each other? There were so many unknowns…"

After a moment Grantaire prompts him to continue. "But you tried it anyway."

"They convinced me that the possible success was more than worth the risk. And it was." Joly closes his eyes, touching his bonds to each of his mates. After a moment they both reach back to him, Bossuet with playful joy, Musichetta with distracted affection. When he opens his eyes his sense of the bonds fades back, the other two wolves too far from him right now for their connection to be the bright, glorious thing it is at home. "I've never regretted bonding with both of them or joining Enjolras' pack."

For a moment Grantaire just stares at him, a look that manages to be both hungry and jealous and pleased for him all at once. Then the stray shakes himself, smiles, and eats the last of his steak. "I'm glad for you. And I hope that one day I'll be able to experience the same joy—at least the part about being happy with my pack. I very much doubt I'll find a mate at this point."

"Don't give up on it. Sometimes the world surprises you." The stray may be older than most wolves were when they found a mate, somewhere in his mid-twenties if Joly had to guess, but that didn't make it impossible.

Grantaire laughs. "Oh, the world does tend to surprise, just not usually in a way that I'd want it to. Now, what are we going to do this afternoon?"

"Mmm." Joly hesitates, considering. "Usually I spend the afternoon volunteering with a local physician when I don't have class. He's very talented, and he does a lot of work for the less affluent in the area. I think I've learned as much working with him as I have in class. It's not always a… pleasant experience, though, especially when there are cholera outbreaks or the like. You're welcome to come, but if you've already had your fill of the scent of death and dying…"

"I don't think I'd be of much help." Grantaire smiles, a self-deprecating grin. "Perhaps it would be better if I simply returned home, or stayed here."

"This is neutral ground. It should be safe enough for you to stay here. You may run into another wolf or two, but we're far enough from Badeau's territory that I expect they'll behave themselves." Standing, Joly reaches into his pocket and slides a coin across to Grantaire. "I can pick you up here when I'm done. Unless you remember the way home?"

Grantaire stares at the money as though it's a foreign object. "I remember the way. I'll be sure not to cause any more trouble for you. And you don't have to give me this. You've already been more than kind enough treating me to dinner."

"Keep it. Treat yourself to dessert, or to another drink, though try not to do anything that will reflect badly on Enjolras or the rest of us." Clapping Grantaire on the shoulder, Joly turns toward the door. "I'll stop by here before going home, and take you with me if you're still here. All right?"

"All right." Grantaire takes the coin as though it were the most precious thing he's ever received. "Thank you, Joly."

"Don't mention it." It's hard, not wrapping his arms around Grantaire, his head held above the submissive wolf's, protecting and sheltering him. He has to appear human here, though. He has to be worthy of the pack that he's in. Tightening his fingers on Grantaire's shoulder, he does what he can to send the submissive wolf a sense of peace and belonging. He's not sure it works, his weak magic and Grantaire's status as non-pack making it difficult, but he doesn't regret trying.

After talking with the stray, he's certain that when Grantaire asks to be pack his vote will be for acceptance. Even if Grantaire isn't as dedicated as they are, has been scarred by a life Joly can't even begin to imagine, he's kind and conscientious, entertaining and intelligent.

The rest they can teach him once he's one of them.


	12. Part 11: The Curiosity of the Concerned

_Part Eleven: The Curiosity of the Concerned_

Grantaire sips at his newest drink, relaxing back into his seat. The tavern that Joly chose for their meal is quiet, as out of the way as anywhere can be near the university, and there aren't very many humans around. It's relaxing, not having the massive input of smells and sounds and sights that go with any crowd of people, and Grantaire closes his eyes for a moment and just breathes. The tavern smells of alcohol, of food, of meat and vegetables that aren't always at their freshest, and, of course, of humans. Humans seemed to be immune to their own scent, never noticing how strong it was and how easily it spread over everything.

He doesn't mind, though. He likes the scent of students, he's finding. He likes the scent of ink and paper, food and drink, joy and energy and camaraderie that seems to accompany them.

Perhaps it wouldn't be such a bad thing to be a student, after all.

He's considering challenging one of the humans sharing the tavern with him to a game of dominoes when the first wolf comes in.

The wolf is female, mid-ranked, somewhere around Musichetta or Bossuet's strength. He freezes when he walks into the bar, just a brief tightening of all his muscles, and Grantaire knows that the wolf has scented him even before the other wolf sees him. His light brown eyes widen in surprise, and Grantaire suspects that this new wolf recognizes Enjolras' lingering scent. Leaning toward the other wolf, Grantaire draws a deep breath of his own.

The new wolf is a pack wolf, but not Enjolras' or Badeau's pack. He's too old to really belong to either pack—or at least Grantaire's impression of either pack, young wolves with new alphas—in his late thirties or early forties. He's mated, to a male that's much higher ranked than him, possibly the alpha of this new pack. He's nervous, shaking his shaggy brown hair away from his eyes, keeping his chin up and in a position of dominance. Grantaire bows his head, not wanting to make the situation worse if it's not needed.

Grantaire thinks about running. He thinks about raising his glass in toast to the other wolf. He's not sure which would look worse for Enjolras' pack, so instead he just stays where he is.

After a moment the female turns away from him, settling down with quiet dignity at a table on the far side of the room.

Run or stay. Run or stay.

After a few second's consideration and another drink, Grantaire decides to stay. He's enjoying himself here, and apparently the other wolf doesn't mind sharing the area with him. It's what neutral ground means, after all. Maybe the other wolf will even be interested in playing a game with him, and he can get to know more about the pack politics in the area. Maybe—

The alpha glides into the café as though he owns it, raising his hand in greeting to the human taking orders, nodding to the few other humans in the cafe. He is older than the female, somewhere in his forties, and his light brown hair has threads of grey wending through it. His eyes are a dirty blue, light around the edges, dark at the iris, and they flick between Grantaire and the female wolf with a knowing smile.

Grantaire spares a quick glance for the female, whose shoulders have relaxed in a way that may be imperceptible to the humans but that speaks volumes to him. The wolf's alpha is here. His mate is here. Everything is right with the world again.

It doesn't hurt that Grantaire can smell the same pack-bonds and mate-bonds on the alpha that he did on the female, of course.

Grantaire stares at the alpha as the male moves toward him, calling out an order to the humans and calmly sitting down at the table next to Grantaire.

"Hello, stray." The strange alpha's voice is low, thrumming with certainty and power as he stares at Grantaire. "So tell me. What new… curiosity has Enjolras brought to my domain?"

Remembering belatedly to lower his head, Grantaire tries not to panic. Just because things went badly with Badeau doesn't mean things are going to go badly here. All he has to do is stay calm and not do anything stupid.

Sighing as he realizes exactly how little control he has over the situation, Grantaire takes another drink before answering. Pushing panic aside leaves room for the frustration and shame that the alpha's greeting had prompted to rise to the fore. "I really wish people wouldn't keep calling me stray. I am aware of my status as stray, I promise. It doesn't need to be brought up every time I meet someone as though it were a title. My name is Grantaire."

Both of the alpha's eyebrows raise, just slightly, and Grantaire ducks his head. Well, that was not the best way he could have started this conversation. Exactly how much has he had to drink already? Hopefully submitting now will at least mitigate the effects his words might have had.

The alpha eventually laughs, a soft, bemused sound. "Well then, Grantaire. It's nice to meet you. My question still stands, though. What oddity do you possess that has drawn Enjolras to you?"

"I don't submit as I should, as my scent says, and I mean no offense by it. Enjolras' pack has kindly allowed me to stay with them for a few days, anyway." Grantaire chances a glance up at this alpha, trying to stifle the frustration starting to build in his chest. Why does his status matter to this alpha? This wolf won't ever have anything to do with him if Enjolras accepts him… or if Enjolras doesn't, really, though Grantaire doesn't want to think on that. "Yes, I intend to join Enjolras' pack. Would you care to know anything else?"

The alpha smiles, an expression that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I would like to know exactly what the pup sees in you to lead him to claim you as one of his. My name is Armand, by the way."

"Oh." Grantaire blinks, taking another glance at the alpha, trying to keep his posture submissive since apparently his words have decided not to be. "You're the one he fought when he first came to Paris."

"I am." Armand inclines his head, and the expression on his face is thoughtful, distant. "I've been following his actions very closely ever since. We all have, of course. How could we not and call ourselves proper alphas? But I have a… special interest in the young one, I believe."

The silence stretches, and Grantaire stares down worriedly at his drink. What's he supposed to say? What does this alpha want from him? Eventually he allows his tongue to move again, though he keeps it on a firmer leash, his tone tentative. "Because he… changed your territory?"

"Partly." Armand shrugs. "He took away one of the things I had built that I rather enjoyed, that being my dominance over the university, but he left me my pack and our home. Overall, when the lines of pack territories were redrawn, I didn't end up losing very much."

"I'm glad for you." There's truth to the words, and Grantaire risks a glance up at the alpha, his frustration burning out. He's never had an adult home. He can't imagine the terror and horror of losing a home, especially not if he was the one who was supposed to be responsible for keeping it safe. It's no wonder Armand wants to keep track of Enjolras. "It must have been a very trying time for a pack as… well-established as yours seems to be."

"You have a kind way of saying old." This time the smile reaches Armand's eyes. "It's always so interesting to look at the young wolves and see how differently you experience the world."

"I didn't say old. As someone who's approaching his twenty-fourth year and still doesn't have a permanent pack, that word has a bit of a negative connotation for me." Grantaire shrugs. "I meant well-established. This was your place. It was your home. Given your age, I'm guessing that you had pups. It would have been a very trying time for any pack in that situation."

"It would have been. It was." Armand's eyes dart away as he makes the admission, the only sign of unease that he's given. "But it gave me insights that I haven't forgotten, as well as a fascination with this new creature in our midst."

"New creature?" Grantaire keeps his tone cool, because otherwise he will snarl. At least creature is less of an affront than monster, he supposes, but do these other alphas have to keep insulting his alpha—the man he _wants_ to be his alpha—to his face? "I suppose by that you mean Enjolras?"

"You take creature to be an insult." Armand smiles at the human who brings over his food. He takes a sip from his drink before continuing. "I mean it as a simple statement. He is not human. He is not a proper wolf. He is something new, something different, and creature is an appropriate enough word for that."

"Why do you say he isn't a proper wolf?" Grantaire can hear the sulkiness in his own voice, but he can't hide it very well. At least Armand claims he's not trying to insult Enjolras. That's at least a step up from Badeau.

"Has anyone told you the full story of what happened when he came to Paris?" The words are murmured to Armand's drink, the older wolf's tone pensive, considering. "Have you heard the whole of that tale—at least as much as anyone other than myself or him could know?"

"He fought you." Grantaire shrugs. "He won."

"He approached me." Armand tilts his glass, allowing the liquid inside to slide over until it pools at the lip of the glass but doesn't quite spill over. "He told me that he intended to attend the university. He told me that he required a law degree. He was quite polite about it, though he kept his head up and looked me in the eye the whole time.

"Can you imagine it? Can you picture him? He looks young now, younger than his years; he looked like a half-grown cub then, still more gangly than muscled, and with only one wolf following him. Only Combeferre, and while Combeferre is impressive, I could defeat him."

Grantaire draws a breath, his mind automatically analyzing and assessing this alpha against Enjolras' beta. Armand is higher-ranked, he thinks, though not by much. It wouldn't need to be by much, though. An alpha with pack-bonds to draw on pitted against an evenly-matched opponent without pack bonds would quickly turn the fight into a bloodbath.

"Enjolras…" Armand breathes the name, tilting his glass to the other side. "Enjolras is unbelievable. Literally unbelievable. I thought there was something wrong with his scent or with my interpretation of it. I didn't think anyone could possibly be as strong as he is, not without more wolves to draw on. I thought that here, on my territory, with my pack of seven adults and two generations of pups to draw on, I was undefeatable.

"I told him no." The corner's of Armand's lips turn up into a grin, and his gaze catches Grantaire's for a moment before Grantaire remembers to lower his eyes. "I heard his request, and I told him no. I didn't want a wolf like him in my university. I didn't want the potential challenge later. I didn't want the trouble that I sensed from him."

Silence stretches again, a silence that Grantaire eventually, reluctantly, fills. "Is that when you fought?"

"No." Armand takes a quick drink. "He considered my answer for a few moments. Then he asked me again. Can you imagine the audacity? The tenacity? I was floored. All I could do was stare at him. He just stared back, such calm blue eyes, not repeating the request, awaiting my answer. I laughed at him, Grantaire. I laughed at him, and I told him no. Then I turned to walk away."

Grantaire doesn't let the silence stretch quite as long this time. "And then he attacked you?"

Shaking his head, Armand sets his glass down carefully, levelly. "No. He touched my shoulder, just a brief touch, and when I turned to look at the mad young thing who clearly didn't understand his position, he asked me one more time. I'll never forget that time. He lowered his head, just a bit, and he lowered his voice, rather than raising it. 'Please.' It was akin to his begging me, Grantaire, but he didn't seem bothered by it. 'I will do what I have to in order to attend university. Say yes and let us end this.'

"And I said no." Armand closes his eyes, drawing a slow, shuddering breath. "I told him no, and _then_, after he'd given me more than fair warning, he attacked me. And I _saw_ him, Grantaire. I saw him more clearly and more cleanly than any wolf ever will. Do you have any idea what it's like when alphas fight?"

Grantaire refuses to answer that question. Any answer he gives is only going to give offense, so he simply raises his eyebrows and gestures at himself. If there's another wolf as low-ranked as he is, Grantaire's never heard of him. Perhaps a dog would let him be its alpha. Otherwise, there's not much chance of his having an alpha battle.

"With alphas with packs, it's not simply a matter of your magic against his. It's not simply a dominance contest, where magic or physical strength are all that matter. It's not like intra-pack battles. It's a matter of will, of determination, of magic, of physical strength, of your pack's allegiance, of _experience_. You're trying to take from your opponent everything that makes him _alpha_. You're trying to break his mind, his will, to find the doorway to reach into his soul and grab his pack-bonds, seize the ties he's made to his wolves, because those ties are his power. Those ties are his life. They are the thing he will draw on, wield against you, use to strengthen himself. I had been alpha of my pack for twenty years, Grantaire. My wolves were _mine_, and content. And he…" Armand's eyes open. "He ripped them from me within the space of a minute. His surety, his certainty, his wielding of his power, it was like no eighteen year old wolf has ever been. He didn't hesitate. He didn't wonder. He didn't waste time calling on or protecting Combeferre. He simply attacked, as he had warned, and took what he needed. He will always take what he needs, Grantaire. He will always do whatever is necessary to advance his goals, and his goals are not what an alpha should have."

"His wolves seem happy enough." It's a safe comment, and the only thing Grantaire trusts himself to say. He's caught between jealousy of Armand, for knowing and understanding Enjolras far more than he likely ever will, and a strange sort of… fear isn't quite the right word, or distaste, but there's something about the way this wolf speaks of Enjolras that Grantaire doesn't like.

"Oh, they are." Armand smiles, his true smile, his eyes dancing. "They love him. He's chosen them very wisely, finding those who will assist him, those who believe as he do. Because that's what he does, Grantaire. He works toward his goal. He works, single-mindedly, towards the elimination of the thing that he is. He is the alpha of alphas, and yet he talks about equality, and he _means_ it. He will see the humans freed. He will see wolves treated as equal citizens in human society. And he will see all wolves have standing within our society, dominant or submissive, strong or weak."

Armand's eyes pin Grantaire in place, the force of his gaze and his focused attention enough to make the hairs on Grantaire's arms attempt to stand on end. After a failed attempt, Grantaire manages to make his tongue move well enough to form a sentence. "I'm afraid I'm still failing to see how this is a bad thing."

"It isn't. I never said it was. I said he's fascinating, and I mean it." Armand's shoulders tense again, his fingers toying over the edge of his glass as his eyes stare at something that only he can see. "I saw all of his mind, Grantaire. I saw what he is, and I saw what he isn't. Where is his drive to dominate? Where is his drive to protect? As I said, he didn't hesitate for an instant when I was aiming to rip Combeferre from him. Where are his doubts, his insecurities? Black night, where is his drive to mate, to reproduce? His pack has gone three falls without producing a single pup, Grantaire. Why do you think that is?"

Grantaire blinks. He doesn't think Armand's right about the lack of a protective instinct or a dominance drive. He doesn't know _how_ he knows, but watching Enjolras interact with his wolves, with Combeferre and Courfeyrac… he doesn't think that much is missing.

But then there's the other matter that Armand brought up. Three falls without cubs. That's quite a lot of self-control on their part. Also, not something he really wants to think about right now. He needs to either be more drunk or less drunk to contemplate what that means. Mildly drunk just won't do. "Their alpha isn't mated."

"That shouldn't interfere with instincts for the rest of them." Armand's expression is that of a teacher speaking with a dull but well-meaning student. "Unless he's doing it intentionally. What kind of alpha would do that, though? What kind of alpha would be able to, and would want to? Besides which, it would be easy enough for him to find a mate if he wished, Grantaire."

Grantaire is certain it would be. He also does not want to be having this conversation. Looking for anything or anyone to catch his attention other than the alpha at his side, Grantaire allows his eyes to wander across the café. They catch on the female wolf, sitting ramrod straight in his chair, eyes fixed unblinkingly on his alpha and mate. The expression on the wolf's face is sad, infinitely sad, and his eyes refuse to meet Grantaire's.

Armand seems to recover himself after a moment, the tension draining from his shoulders. A self-deprecating smile graces his face briefly and then is gone. "My apologies if I've upset or worried you, Grantaire. They are rhetorical questions. I merely meant to emphasize how different Enjolras is from others who have come before. Which brings me back to my main question: what does he want with you?"

"I'm actually fairly certain he doesn't want me." Grantaire drains his drink and gestures for another. "But the others in his pack have been kind, and he says they'll put it to a vote. I may be gone and no longer of note in a few days."

"Anything that pup does is of note." Tapping his finger against the table, Armand purses his lips. "An alpha doesn't accept a wolf he doesn't want. The tension of sharing the thoughts and feelings of someone you dislike would be… unpleasant. But he isn't like most alphas. Would he truly do it? Or is there something more to his plans? Does he see something in you that I don't?"

"If he does, he hasn't enlightened me."

Armand watches Grantaire for what feels like several minutes, his bicolor eyes seeming to take in every motion and expression and wrinkle in Grantaire's clothing. Grantaire isn't certain exactly what conclusion the alpha eventually reaches, but finally Armand stands. Leaning over the table, he claps Grantaire on the shoulder. "I look forward to seeing what he does with you, Grantaire, submissive who doesn't submit. I look forward to seeing where in his machinations you fit. And when you tell him I talked to you, tell him that I am glad that he's still a glorious creature, that he hasn't become just another boring alpha."

Grantaire nods, slowly, feeling as though he's facing down a cobra that could strike at any moment.

Armand straightens, his voice falling to a soft whisper. "Because the day he becomes like the rest of us, Grantaire, is the day I'll have to think of a way to kill him. No one with that much power should be like we are."

Without another word Armand walks away, giving another smile to the shop-keep as he pays and leaves. His mate follows after him, though the female wolf spares a look for Grantaire before leaving.

It's a difficult look to read. He sees pain in there, and fear, and hesitancy. What must it be like, to have his mate and alpha so fixated on this young wolf? What did Enjolras do to their pack, defeating their alpha so easily, even if he did what he could to repair the damage?

What did he do to their alpha? How much has Armand changed since his brush with his creature, the wolf that he doesn't want to be mortal?

Frowning at the liquid still remaining in his glass, Grantaire downs it in one burning swallow.

Questions always seemed easier to answer after a drink or two.

XXX

The second alpha comes with his beta and gamma in tow.

Grantaire blinks at the three wolves, squinting up at them as they stand in the light in front of him.

The alpha is female. Grantaire knows that the female is alpha because his scent is the primary one in the pack-scent on all three of the wolves. Nodding to himself, he draws another deep breath. This alpha is less dominant than Combeferre, more dominant than Bahorel, and the two male wolves with her are also right around Bahorel's strength. The alpha is mated to the gamma; the beta is mated to a lower-ranked male wolf that Grantaire's fairly certain isn't present. Craning his head to glance around the café, he nods in satisfaction. The missing mate definitely isn't present.

The alpha frowns at him uncertainly. "You're Grantaire? You're the new wolf that Enjolras' pack is considering?"

"I'm Grantaire." Smiling up at the female, he tries to look non-threatening. It shouldn't be too hard, since he's so submissive. Right. Submit. He should submit. Dipping his head, he studies the floor for a moment. "Enjolras' pack is being nice to me right now. Is that all you want to know?"

The alpha gestures for his wolves to move to the other side of the cafe before sitting down in the seat next to the one where Armand had sat, to Grantaire's right. Interesting, that even when they're not in the same building the alphas don't want to share a seat. Though it would be harder to share a seat if they were in the same building. That would probably start a fight.

He really doesn't want to start a fight. Fighting with Badeau was bad enough. "I'm not trying to cause trouble. I promise."

The alpha blinks at him again. "I believe you, Grantaire."

Sighing in relief, he nods before pausing and considering the alpha's words. "How do you know my name?"

"Word of what happened between Badeau and you has gone around fairly quickly." The female smiles, an expression that's far gentler and fonder than Grantaire had expected. "Some of my younger wolves are attending the university. They brought me news of you yesterday, and of Armand's activities today."

"Oh." Forcing his vision to focus, Grantaire nods. This female is older than he is, he supposes, perhaps in his early thirties. Nodding to himself, Grantaire carefully sets his drink down and then allows his eyes to fix on his lap. Keep his eyes down. Keep his head down. Act submissive. Don't give offense. Maybe he can use the fact that apparently all the alphas in the area want to talk to him to his advantage. "Do your wolves like being able to attend the university?"

The alpha's smile grows more wistful. "None of the young ones are terribly dominant. Armand almost certainly would have let them attend even before Enjolras… changed things."

"Oh. I mean, good. That's good." He really shouldn't pick his drink up again. So why is it in his hands? "You and he got along pretty well then?"

"Well enough. As well as neighboring packs should." The female shrugs. "Not all of us are like Badeau, thank the White Lady. Nothing would ever get done if we were. So long as a wolf wasn't likely to challenge him or cause trouble, Armand would tolerate their presence at the university during their classes. He really does believe in education. Even if it would be hard to be a lawyer who has to have a particular night free each month so that he can turn into a large wolf and try very hard not to howl at the moon."

"It's a lot more fun when we can howl." Grantaire finds that his drink is near empty again, and carefully sets it back on the table. "In my opinion, at least, though I know most of us can't."

"None of us can. None of us have been able to for the last three centuries, not really, not in any honesty. Howl too often, even in the country, and you get blamed for every dead animal. Then it becomes every dead child. Then you have a witch-hunt on your hands, and we just can't take the kind of bloodbaths that we have in the past. Our species wouldn't survive it." The alpha's hazel eyes rise slowly, his expression troubled. "My name is Geroux, by the way."

"You already know my name." Grantaire forces himself not to meet the alpha's eyes for too long. "And what pack I'm associated with—or not, as the case may be. What else did you want to ask?"

Geroux's lips turn up in a bemused smile. "I was hoping for a few more specifics on what your potential relationship to Enjolras' pack will be."

"As a member, I hope." Giving his own best smile, Grantaire raises his glass in a silent toast and drains it dry. "I would very much like to be a part of a pack, Geroux. And they have been terribly kind to me."

Geroux leans back, just slightly, his head held high.

After a moment Grantaire remembers to lower his own head and eyes. "Sorry. That's why I don't have a pack, you see. I don't do that right. I don't submit right."

"And Enjolras is fine with that?" Geroux's index finger scratches against the tabletop, his eyes drawn together as he considers. "I've only been with you for five minutes, Grantaire, and it's already making my wolf nervous."

"Sorry." Grantaire mumbles the word to his drink. "Like I said, they're being kind to me. Though it's all right with Enjolras. I submit to him like I should."

That might not have been the right thing to say. The female's eyes narrow even as his hands stop all movement. "Really?"

"Really." Shrugging his shoulders, Grantaire offers a conspiratorial smile. "I've never submitted properly to anyone before—not to Badeau, not to you, not to Armand, not to any of the others. Not to Combeferre or Courfeyrac, and I'd rather like to behave properly with Courfeyrac. He's been very kind to me. And with Bahorel and Jehan, too, since they've also been quite kind. And Joly. Well, to all of them, because they've all been very kind. But I am me, and I can only be a proper wolf when I'm with Enjolras."

"You are very drunk, aren't you?" There's puzzlement in Geroux's voice.

Right. Most wolves tried not to drink too much. Drinking made it harder to have control. "Just a little bit. I promise, I've been more drunk before, and I've never done anything stupid to give away the Pack."

"Why are they interested in you?" The bemusement is still in Geroux's voice. "Are you just someone they're taking in out of…"

"Go ahead and say it. Someone they're taking in out of pity." Grantaire gestures for another glass, though he suddenly doesn't feel quite so much like drinking. "Perhaps. Probably. I know I likely won't be much use to him, though if he accepts me I will try. But no, I don't know of any grand plots he might be planning involving me."

"I find it difficult to imagine any, either." There's a strange combination of relief and dismay in the alpha's voice. "Are you certain that you're not going to cause too much stress for that pack?"

Grantaire shrugs. "They haven't seemed too bothered by me yet. I think it helps that I respond to Enjolras properly. And everyone else… they're very kind people, Geroux. Kinder than I ever hoped to find. Maybe kinder than I deserve. So I don't understand why everyone seems to _hate_ them so much."

"I don't hate them." Geroux's hand covers his, the alpha's fingers warm and gentle. "He scares me, sometimes. That whole pack does, but him especially, more than the darkest tale of the black night. I'm supposed to protect my people, Grantaire. I'm supposed to keep them safe. How am I supposed to do that when there's someone like _him_ trying to change everything?"

"Not all change is bad." Grantaire's eyes are fixed on the table. That's all right, though. That's a good place for them to be, a safe place that can't get him in trouble. "For some of us, change is the only way that we might have a chance at staying alive."

"Change is frightening when it's not in your control, though. Especially when some of us are designed to have control—to make control, to keep it, to give stability to everyone else." The female wolf speaks gently, still, his hand kind on top of Grantaire's. "I will keep my wolves safe, Grantaire. If I have to kill you or him or his whole pack to do so, I will. I'd prefer to just run you off, but if I must—"

"You _don't_." Raising his eyes to meet the alpha's, Grantaire tries to make his sincerity and certainty obvious. "I'm no threat to you. I'm not going to change anything for him or them. All that's going to happen is that I'll have a chance at being happy. Is that really so bad?"

Geroux stiffens again, though he keeps his hand on Grantaire's and meets his eyes evenly. "That's not bad. But if you're going to destabilize his pack—"

"How?" Grantaire raises one eyebrow, reaching for his empty drink. "Just what am I going to do that's going to change things so much?"

"He… could be interested in you as a mate." There's doubt and hesitancy in Geroux's voice even as the female speaks.

"No." Shaking his head, Grantaire smiles. "No. Just… look at me. Smell me again. You can't imagine why he'd want me in his pack. Why in the name of the merciful Lady would he even think of taking me as a mate?"

Geroux shrugs, though the female's cheeks redden slightly. "Some alphas enjoy having a very submissive mate. The power imbalance… excites them. Where he's the most dominant wolf I've ever seen and you're the most submissive…"

"I couldn't even imagine something like that." Shaking his head, Grantaire smiles ruefully. "I just want to be with them. I won't ask for anything else, and I don't expect that he'll offer anything else. They'll continue to be them, and I'll just… go along with them, doing what I can to help."

Smiling slightly, Geroux pulls his hand back to his side. "I do suppose, having met you, that I find this more likely than you causing the end of our world as we know it."

"I think that's a compliment." Keeping his head low, Grantaire glances up at the alpha. "You all don't need to be so afraid of him, you know. He's not any kind of monster. He's a good alpha. He's kind. He's _fair_. And the rest of the pack is amazing. Maybe you should meet him and his people when you're not talking about alpha stuff. Maybe we could play cards or… or dominoes or something like that."

"You want us to sit and play dominoes with Enjolras." Geroux stares at him in open astonishment for a moment before laughing. "You want all the alphas of Paris to sit and play _dominoes_ with _Enjolras_?"

"No." Grantaire grins. "I'd prefer if Badeau wasn't there. I don't think he'd be into the spirit of camaraderie that we'd be attempting to produce."

"Ah, stray…" Shaking his head, Geroux stands. After a moment's hesitation the female reaches into his pocket and flicks Grantaire a coin. "Buy yourself another drink. And try not to cause any trouble for us. Having met you, I'd find it much harder to drive you off. And I'd really prefer not to have to fight Enjolras, though I will find a way if he forces my hand."

"No fighting. Dominoes. We're going to play dominoes." Grantaire lifts one hand with his empty glass and the other with the coin, smiling contentedly as one of the humans fills a new glass and heads toward him. "It'll be fun."

Geroux just shakes his head, heading toward the door. A slight flick of his head summons the two wolves who had been with him from the other side of the café, and they leave together, all three seeming more relaxed when they're together than they had when they were apart.

Grantaire relaxes, as well, settling back in his chair and contemplating his newest drink. He'll just finish this last one and leave. He's already had far too much excitement for the day. At least no one has punched him yet. And he thinks things went rather well with Geroux. Maybe it'll even be a useful idea, having Enjolras sit down and talk with the other alphas in a situation where he's _not_ doing something to antagonize them. Surely, if they got to know Enjolras like his pack does, like Grantaire has seen him, then—

Grantaire lifts his eyes slowly, his heart dropping as the scent of another high-ranked wolf assaults his nostrils.

Just how many alphas are in Paris, and why are they all choosing to come talk to _him_?

XXX

Enjolras straightens in his chair, the pen in his hand coming dangerously close to snapping as his fingers tighten around it, responding to an emotion he can't quite pin down but doesn't like.

Courfeyrac glances over at him, his eyes drawn together in concern.

Shaking his head, Enjolras gestures back at the professor currently lecturing at them. One of them needs to be focusing on the examples being given, and since this is the third time the feeling has assaulted him, Enjolras knows that's not going to be him right now.

Closing his eyes, Enjolras sorts through his pack-bonds in rapid succession. Courfeyrac's is the easiest to hold and read, since the other female is sitting right by him. He knows that Courfeyrac's fine, though, not the source of the distress that's been distracting him, so he gently shoves aside his reading of that pack-bond and moves on to the others.

Combeferre is also fine, listening avidly to someone lecture on lightning and electricity in a building not too far away, though he still notices the instant Enjolras touches the pack-bond. Sending a sense of calm along to his beta, Enjolras moves onward.

Bahorel is meeting with humans, and doesn't even notice Enjolras touching the bond. Monet is similarly engaged, though the female pauses and waits for him to send the all-clear before ignoring him entirely. Musichetta is too far away to read easily, but seems unharmed and unperturbed. Bossuet has a bruised shin, somehow, but seems largely content with the situation anyway. Feuilly is the furthest away and the hardest to read, but Enjolras concentrates until he's shoved away by the mildly exasperated artist. Not him, then. Joly is working; Jehan is reading aloud, and Enjolras tries very hard not to distract him while making sure that the poet is all right.

Which accounts for all of the pack, but not the feeling of dread and being severely overwhelmed that has been distracting Enjolras for the last few minutes.

The stray. It's the only explanation that's left, and as soon as Enjolras turns his mind toward the strange male he knows that he's right.

They don't have a proper pack-bond yet. Grantaire hasn't asked to be pack, and Enjolras hasn't bent his power on tying the submissive into the pack's magic. That doesn't matter, though. Grantaire wants to be pack. He wants it desperately, hungrily, like a drowning man wants dry land. Enjolras' pack magic, all his life overly eager to draw others to him, has already laid the preliminary strands of pack-bond between them, and without Grantaire's will to force them away the gossamer strands have stayed.

Touching the strands, Enjolras feels the sense of unease that had initially drawn his attention magnify a hundred fold.

_Alphas._

It's a whimper in Grantaire's mind, a sense of power and overwhelming might bearing down on him that is like nothing Enjolras' ever felt before.

_Stop._

It's a wish, a wistful, helpless wish for the powerful to leave him alone, to stop frightening him, though Grantaire knows there's nothing he can do to make the wish come true.

It's hard to read anything more. There's a muddled, disconnected sense to Grantaire's emotions that Enjolras attributes to the distance between them and the lack of a proper pack-bond.

Opening his eyes, Enjolras glances between the professor and the handful of notes he's taken today.

Courfeyrac is eyeing him again, questioning, uncertain.

Gathering up his books, Enjolras leans over to his gamma. "Take as many notes as you can. There's something I need to go deal with."

He doesn't say anything else before standing and slipping out of the class.

If his professor has a problem with his leaving, they can discuss things later. They most likely will discuss things later, when Enjolras reads through Courfeyrac's notes and decides what other questions need to be asked.

Right now, he has something much more important to deal with.

XXX

The third alpha settles into the seat at Grantaire's left, in the chair that neither Armand nor Geroux had used. Interesting, that. Grantaire wonders, briefly, what he would have done if there hadn't been a third chair at the table. Would he have traded out a chair? Or would that be too much acknowledgement that the other alphas had been here? Would—

"Give me one good reason not to kill you or drive you out of town."

Grantaire blinks up at the male alpha, eyes widening in surprise. "Because then I'd be dead. I don't really want to be dead."

The alpha stares back at him, dark brown eyes narrowed, eyebrows drawn together in a look that could be a threat or could be nervousness. His dark brown hair curls eagerly all over his head despite being cut short—shorter than their hair normally stopped growing at. "I don't… that's… are you _drunk_?"

Considering the empty glasses littering the table before him for a moment and the difficulty of keeping his thoughts focused on the important things in front of him, Grantaire comes to a quick decision. "Yes. Decidedly."

"But… I…" The alpha stares over at him, clearly at a loss and frustrated with that fact. Leaning closer to Grantaire, he lowers his voice. "You're considering joining Enjolras' pack, correct? You got into a brawl with Badeau yesterday in which Enjolras' wolves made rather brash threats?"

"Yes and yes and no." Smiling, Grantaire shrugs and finishes his drink. "I would very much like to join Enjolras' pack. There was a fight yesterday. Badeau started it, though. As for any threats that were made… they placed me under their protection. Would your wolves have stood for another alpha striking someone under your protection, or would they have used whatever means at their disposal to protect your interests?"

"The means at our disposal are rather different from the means that _his_ wolves have at their disposal." The male leans back in his seat, still frowning. "A threat like that isn't something to be taken lightly by any of us. Did Enjolras punish his wolf for what he did?"

"I'm not sure I'm supposed to talk about how Enjolras deals with his wolves. It's his pack's business, not yours." Grantaire frowns at the other male. Taking a breath, he sorts through the scents on this strange alpha. He's strong, stronger than Geroux, somewhere around Badeau's level. Mated, definitely, to a relatively high-ranked female. There are eight or nine scents mixed in their pack-magic, a large number of adults for a wolf not much older than Grantaire to hold. And there is the scent of fear, just barely perceptible over the other scents.

This alpha is afraid.

This alpha is afraid of Enjolras, and somehow, by extension, Grantaire.

It's an impossible thing. No one should be afraid of him. He has no pack, no magic, no mate, no purpose, no _nothing_. To have an alpha sitting in front of him, worried…

Grantaire bows his head. He doesn't want this wolf to be afraid of him. He doesn't want him to be afraid of Enjolras, not when Enjolras wants what's best for everyone. "They didn't approve of what Bahorel did. He was dealt with, and I doubt that the situation will come up again."

The other male relaxes, just slightly. "Good."

"I'm Grantaire, by the way." Grantaire finds his eyes rising to meet the alpha's and hastily forces them back down to the table. "I'm submissive. I'm no danger. I might not even get to be a part of his pack, because I'm not very good at being part of anything larger than a drink, so you all really don't need to worry about me. And you really don't need to worry about him. He's trying to help us. He's trying to fix things. And you should play dominoes with him at some point. I think it would be a good idea, for all the alphas to get together and not talk about scary things like territory and the rights of humans and what we want to have happen politically. Dominoes aren't scary like all of that is. They're just little wooden pieces with numbers—"

"You're insane." The alpha stares at him, lips slightly parted, a look of dismay on his face.

"No." Grantaire hesitates. "I don't think so, at least. Just very drunk, like you said."

"Why would he possibly want a wolf like you?" The alpha tilts his head, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "You're not like Bahorel, are you? You don't have something… odd that you can do to us?"

"No. Not that I know of." Grantaire stares down into his empty glass, wishing that it wasn't quite so empty. "You're right. You're all right. I am useless. I am pointless. There's no way that he would want me, and it's foolish of me to want to join his pack. I'm sorry that I wanted to try."

There are tears starting to pool in his eyes, and Grantaire blinks them back with an effort. He can't do this anymore. Yesterday with Badeau was bad enough. To have three alphas approach him, in rapid succession, all of them with the same questions, the same assumptions, the same beliefs…

He may not submit like he should, but he knows what they are. He can still sense their power. He knows that they're dangerous. He's run from alphas and their packs for the last seven years of his life. He doesn't know how to sit and talk with them. He shouldn't _be_ sitting and talking with them.

Maybe he shouldn't be here. Maybe they're all right. Maybe he's a danger to Enjolras and his pack. Maybe—

A low whimper rips itself from his throat before becoming a sigh of relief as yet another alpha walks into the room. There's no fear this time, though. There's simply a sense of all being right with the world as he bows his head and exposes his neck to the man that he desperately wants to be worthy of.

Enjolras is here.

Maybe now the nightmare can stop.

XXX

"Paquet." Enjolras greets the other alpha with a slight incline of his head—enough to show respect, not too much, not enough to show weakness. "What, exactly, are you doing with our guest?"

Paquet stands immediately, his hands clenching and unclenching at his side. His face flushes red as he looks between Grantaire's teary-eyed obeisance and Enjolras. "I swear, Enjolras, I wasn't doing anything to him. We were just talking."

Arching one eyebrow, Enjolras glances down at Grantaire's huddled form, half-sprawled on the table. The reek of alcohol in the room should at least explain to any curious humans why Grantaire's posture seems… abnormal for a man. "A talk that seems to have caused a great deal of distress."

"That wasn't my intention." Paquet stands perfectly still, though there's a slight tremor to his fingers that suggests he would rather be moving, circling, doing anything but standing and facing Enjolras directly. Their options are limited in human places, though.

"'s all right." Grantaire lifts his head, just slightly, though he stays in a submissive huddle. "I don't think he meant to upset me. At least not after the first sentence. It wasn't very nice to threaten to kill me."

Enjolras doesn't say anything. He just lifts both eyebrows and fixes the other alpha with a steady stare.

"It was a rhetorical question!" Paquet leans over the table toward Grantaire, giving his shoulder a slight shove. "You know that, right? It wasn't a threat. I just—"

"You meant it." Grantaire stares up at Paquet, meeting his eyes squarely, expression sullen and bleary-eyed. "You said give you a good reason for you not to kill me, and I think you meant it."

"I said kill or run off. There's a difference." Paquet's teeth are bared, his wolf rising more to the fore as Grantaire unconsciously challenges him. "And you were fine after that, might I add. The rest of the conversation has been… interesting, to say the least."

"He's under my protection. He's staying with my pack." Enjolras places a hand on Grantaire's other shoulder, trying not to wrinkle his nose in distaste at the overwhelming scent of alcohol currently surrounding the man. "You're aware of that, correct?"

Paquet leans back, feet shuffling but not actually moving, and Enjolras forces his gaze to move to the side. He isn't challenging Paquet. It's always harder, when there are only two alphas in the room, when it's clear who would be dominant and who submissive. He will see and treat this male as an equal, though. They are both wolves. They are both alphas, and Paquet treats fairly with his pack.

He will not allow this to degenerate into an alpha struggle. He's only had one in his life, and the cost of such conflicts is far too high for all parties involved.

Keeping his eyes fixed on the wall, Paquet still in his peripheral vision but not meeting his gaze in a challenge, Enjolras forces his body to relax. "What information were you trying to get from him?"

Paquet relaxes, just slightly, his own gaze traveling to the opposite wall. "What's this going to change?"

"Him?" Enjolras can hear the surprise in his own voice, and Grantaire flinches under his hand. "It will change my pack, I suppose. We'll have another wolf. That's all."

"You're not planning anything with him?" Paquet's suspicion is clear in his voice. "He doesn't have any powers we need to be wary of?"

"The only wolf I have with abilities that might be considered unique is Bahorel, and he has no intentions of using them on other wolves in the near future." Enjolras keeps his tone cool, controlled. He had been worried that Bahorel's threat would put the other alphas on edge. He had been right. Sometimes he doesn't like being right. "You know where my political interests currently lie. Human society has to change before more can be done about our own society. But my goals, short or long-term, currently have nothing to do with Grantaire. He is simply a wolf looking for a pack."

"And he just happened to choose yours." The scorn in Paquet's voice stings, just slightly, but Enjolras knows his wolves too well to let it truly bother him.

His people are happy. Nothing that anyone else says will change that. "He chose mine because we can tolerate his small aberration—his failure to submit properly in most situations—in a way that he has found no other packs willing or able to. He is spending some time watching us to ensure that he truly understands what he'll be getting into."

"That's really it?" Paquet's shoulders relax more, and he lifts his left hand to scratch absently, almost ashamedly, at his ear. "There's nothing more going on? You're not threatening Badeau or any of the rest of us?"

"No." Sorrow and disappointment rise in Enjolras, but he pushes them aside. He had thought Paquet understood him, even if he's less likely than Geroux or Bisset or Armand to side with Enjolras when all the alphas meet. "There is nothing more or less going on than a stray trying out a new pack. I make it a policy not to threaten strays that are experimenting with your pack. I would appreciate it if you would return the favor."

"I'm sorry, Grantaire." Paquet reaches over tentatively, glancing his fingers across Grantaire's hand before pulling back, his eyes darting to Enjolras as though he expects Enjolras to bite him. "I didn't mean any threat or harm."

"That's all right." Grantaire smiles up at the other alpha, though he leans against Enjolras. "You can't help being what you are, same as me, same as him. Think about the dominoes idea, though. I think it's a good idea."

Paquet flicks his gaze to meet Enjolras', just for a moment, and gives a stiff nod. "I thank you for your time and your patience, Enjolras, and wish you a good day."

"A pleasant day to you as well." Enjolras doesn't turn to watch the other alpha leave. He doesn't want to make the man more nervous or skittish than he already is. He can feel the instant Paquet walks out the door, though, the tension in the room immediately dropping by several notches. Even the few humans seem to notice, moving more freely, smiling more than they had while the two alphas spoke.

Grantaire looks up at him, eyes still tear-puffy. "I'm sorry if I caused trouble."

"It's all right, Grantaire." Enjolras squeezes the stray's arm. "It's not your fault that I have a reputation."

"It's not the one you deserve." Grantaire's starting to slur his words, though he glances up at Enjolras with bright sincerity. "I don't know why they're all so frightened of you. It's not right. You're amazing."

"You're very drunk." Helping Grantaire stand, Enjolras guides the stray toward the door. "We'll talk about this when you're sober, as well as about the drinking. Do try to remember who approached you and what you spoke about, if you can. It could be helpful to me."

"I'd like that." A hazy smile graces Grantaire's face, and Enjolras has to pull him up sharply into a standing position as the stray attempts to nuzzle against him. Grantaire doesn't seem to mind, though, continuing to smile as he follows Enjolras with the utmost trust. "I'd like to be useful to you. They kept saying I couldn't be, you know. I started to think maybe they were right."

"It's not something to discuss right now." Having a conversation with Grantaire at this point would be pointless. Enjolras' seen Bahorel, Bossuet, Joly and Courfeyrac drink enough times to recognize when someone is past the point of comprehension, even without the added input of the stray's muddled thoughts and emotions slipping through their almost-realized pack bond.

And that's a problem. Pausing mid-step, Enjolras frowns down at the ground, forcing his mind and soul away from Grantaire's. Grantaire hasn't asked for permission to be pack. The pack hasn't granted it. Enjolras' own instincts and power can't be allowed to have free reign, to take the stray's allegiance just because it's being silently offered.

Grantaire whimpers, a low, soft sound of distress, and pulls away from him. When the stray speaks, his voice is thick with pain and surprise. "I'm sorry. What did I do? Did I say—"

"No. Hush." Enjolras places an arm around Grantaire's shoulders, an awkward position given the stray's taller height that's made better by Grantaire's hunched posture. "It's all right. It wasn't censure. It's just not the proper time for that. When you ask and they say yes, then I'll let the pack-bond do what it will."

"Really?" Grantaire stares at him, lost, disheveled. "You'll really accept me?"

"Yes." Tugging on Grantaire's arm, Enjolras coerces the man into moving again. "I'll accept you."

"I'd like that." Grantaire stumbles, but he recovers quickly, staying at Enjolras' side.

"I know." Enjolras pauses, responding to a quick, questioning mental jab from Courfeyrac with a wave of reassurance and calm. When that's done he turns back to Grantaire. "I'll ask of you what I ask of all of them. I'll ask you to stand and possibly die with me."

Grantaire nods, expression solemn, eyes locked on the ground. "I'll do what I can. I can't promise I'll be worth anything close to the others, but I'll do what I can."

Enjolras nods. "I'm sure you will."

It's all he'd ask of Grantaire. It's all he asks of any of the people who join him or the people he speaks to. If they will do what they can, he will do everything within his power to fix their world.

After another minute or two Grantaire looks around them, eyes wide and puzzled. "Where are we going?"

"Home."

"Home." Grantaire repeats the word, a soft, melancholic smile on his face. "I like the sound of that. I want to go home."

Enjolras can feel the hope, the relief, the joy in Grantaire's mind battling with despair, sorrow, an unwillingness to trust in anything. Tightening his arm around Grantaire's shoulder, he resists the urge to let the pack-bond snap into place between them, to salve Grantaire's pain.

He cannot police his pack's hearts and minds. He cannot take away their experiences, their losses, their agonies, not without invalidating their victories, their dreams, their desires.

All he can do is try to make their world a better place, and hope that it will be enough to protect them.


	13. Part Twelve: A Question of Intent

_Part Twelve: A Question of Intent_

Wolf is gone in the afternoon and Marius is once again present at the gate.

She had expected it, in a way. She had seen Wolf watching her from the garden as she watched him from the house throughout the morning and early afternoon, his eyes always seeming to find and hold hers even when she thought she was being clever by using another window. When Wolf had no longer been visible after she completed her afternoon meal with her father, she had assumed he managed to magic his way out of the garden in the same way that he entered it.

There's no logical reason for her expectation that Marius would come to see her in the late afternoon, but it had been there anyway.

She dressed warmly before coming outside, trying not to appear too eager or to arouse her father's suspicions. It had helped that she couldn't see the gate from the house, that she had only her strange certainty that Marius would be there to go on.

And now here he is, standing in front of her again, shivering slightly as the wind whips down the street. His threadbare coat is fastened tight around his lean body, and his beautiful, Wolf-bright eyes shine up at her in pure joy as she walks towards him.

"Hello again, Monsieur Marius." She pauses on her side of the gate, her hands wrapped and warm.

His hands shake from cold as they reach towards the bars that separate the two of them, but he doesn't seem to notice. "Hello, Cosette. I'm afraid that Wolf managed to slip his chain again this morning. Have you seen him?"

"He was here this morning." She wants to reach out toward him, to touch one of the hands that is reaching out towards her. That would be improper, though, foolish, possibly dangerous, and she can't justify that yet. "I seem to be his preferred provider of breakfast."

"You are too kind, mademoiselle. Too kind by far." His hands pull back from the iron bars, finally, disappear into the pockets of his jacket.

Cosette waits a moment, but Marius seems to be at a loss for what to say next. "Are you going to go search for him some more then, monsieur?"

"I suppose I should." Marius' eyes drop to the ground, his cheeks flushing even redder than the cold had already made them. "Allow me to rest here for a moment and savor your beauty, Cosette, before sending me off into the cold."

Cosette finds her cheeks burning, a giddy smile trying to climb onto her face, and turns away abruptly. Really, now, what's getting into her? She barely knows this man. Compliments from him shouldn't mean anything.

"I'm sorry if I caused offense." Marius' voice is soft, lost. "I didn't mean to, Cosette."

"No. There was no offense." Turning back to him, she can't fully suppress her smile. He calms down, a look of panic fading to one of soft confusion tempered by an eagerness to please, and she's struck again by how similar to Wolf his expressions can seem. "I was just startled, monsieur. We don't know each other terribly well, after all, so to hear words such as that from you… I fear I know your dog far better than I do you!"

"We could change that." Marius smiles, and it makes his whole face radiant. "Ask whatever you like of me, Cosette. I will try to answer it. And please, call me Marius."

"All right, Marius." Cosette considers the man for a moment. What does she ask? Does she ask about his clothes? Does she ask about his eyes? No. She doesn't want to frighten him or force him to lie, not yet. "Where are you from, Marius?"

"Here." He answers simply, promptly. "I was born outside the city, but my pa—people—_family _consider themselves Parisian, and I was raised largely in the city. And you, Cosette?"

"I'm not entirely sure where I was born." She hasn't considered it before. It hasn't seemed important before. "I spent the majority of my childhood in a convent here, where my Papa worked before I said that I wanted to see more of the world."

"And have you seen more of it?" His hand is back on the bars that separate him from her, his head tilted enquiringly. "What have you thought of it?"

"I've certainly seen more than I had when living behind walls." She smiles, a combination of fondness and homesickness for the convent mixing with joy as she contemplates all that she's seen since they left. "We see a great many people at church, and Papa takes me for walks throughout the city. Where do you live, Marius?"

"I used to live with my grandfather, but he and I had a falling out." Marius' head lowers, his shoulders hunching, a posture that is somehow scared and defiant all at once. "Since then I move about, finding lodging where I can. I've yet to find a permanent residence, unfortunately."

"That must be difficult, especially with a beast like Wolf in tow."

"Hm?" Marius' eyes widen in surprise. "I mean, yes, it is more difficult to find locations that work well with Wolf. We do well enough, though."

Interesting. Could it really not matter that he has a hundred pound beast in tow when he's looking for a home? She debates pushing him farther about that, but she wants him to speak openly with her for as long as possible. "What did you argue with your grandfather about?"

He hesitates again, just for a moment. Then his eyes meet hers, and his expression takes on a firm, determined cast. "We argued about my father. He and his p—friends fought under Napoleon in the wars. My grandfather believes that it was wrong, that my father had no business involving himself in such affairs. At first I agreed with my grandfather, but after meeting my father I believe he was in the right. He found an al—a leader that impressed him enough to make him want to follow him, and he followed. It's what all wo—people do."

He's keeping information from her. He's changing some of his words even as he speaks. But he isn't lying to her, still. That's why she doesn't call him on the changes, why she lets them slip by and accepts the words that he can give her. "Why don't you stay with your father if he's the reason that you and your grandfather are no longer on good terms?"

Marius' eyes drop to the ground, his shoulders hunching, sorrow filling his face. "My father died. I didn't meet him until shortly before his death. He was the last of his pa—people. I have nowhere to go… and I'm not sure if I have a desire to search properly, not knowing how many share my grandfather's views."

"Nonsense, Marius." She reaches through the bars without a second's thought, and after a moment he takes her hand in his. His fingers are rough, calloused, as though he has done a great deal of work with his hands. Or as though he has run on them, but that's a strange and foolish thought. "There are people with many different political views out there, and some with none at all or who seem to change their politics as often as they change their clothes. Besides, your politics shouldn't determine where you would be welcome. You're a handsome and charming young man. You'll find a place to belong."

"Cosette…" Her name is a whisper, half-strangled, and she can see the yearning in his eyes to say more.

He stays silent, though, and after a moment she reluctantly pulls her hand back to her own side of the bars. She tries to think of another topic of conversation that might put him back at ease. "How long have you had Wolf, then?"

His eyes widen in surprise again, though he seems to keep his panic on a tighter leash. After only a few second's delay he answers. "Since I was child. He was a gift from my parents."

"He must be quite old, then." She smiles, thinking of the bounding beast in the garden. He hadn't struck her as old, but she supposes the silver markings in his fur may have hidden some of his true age from her. "He seems healthy and happy enough."

"He is quite healthy and happy. At least so far as I know." Marius shifts uncomfortably, his eyes darting to the left and right but not quite meeting hers. He's lying to her, or at least is coming much closer to lying to her than he had before.

All right. If he's going to lie to her, she's going to press him for more information. "How does Wolf enter the garden, Monsieur Marius?"

Marius takes a step back from her, and for a moment she thinks he's going to run. Then the fingers of the hand that she had touched rub together, and he straightens and faces her again. "It's important to you that you know?"

"There are many other questions I could ask you, Monsieur Marius. I could ask you how the clothes that are on your back have come to be in my garden repeatedly. I could ask why I have never seen you with Wolf. I could ask why you have the same eyes as Wolf. I could ask what words you meant to speak and stopped yourself from speaking earlier." She stops, not liking the fear and sorrow in his eyes, half expecting that he will dart away and that she will never see him or Wolf again. Reaching through the bars, she grabs hold of his hand again. "But I won't. I won't force you to tell your secrets until you're ready. I just need to know if the garden is still safe. So will you tell me…?"

"Here." He doesn't let go of her hand as he steps up to the gate, sliding the fingers of his free hand up and down one of the bars. "This bar slides to the side if you press on it properly. I don't know how Wolf came to find it, but he showed me when I found him here before. Wolf is quite clever at doing things like that."

"This one?" Gently separating her hand from his, Cosette reaches toward the bar in question and pushes. It takes more strength than she imagined, but after a second or so the bar slides to the side, giving room for a thin man to slide through.

A thin man, but even a lean dog with shoulders the size of Wolf's wouldn't fit through the gap.

She looks over at Marius, her eyes full of the questions she wants to ask.

After a moment he sighs, looking down at his hands. "If I said that I could explain everything, but that it is something that must be kept secret, would you agree to meet with me?"

"Where?" A thrill runs through her at the thought of sharing a secret—something important enough to explain how Marius has been behaving, something strange enough to explain all that has happened. She tries and fails to imagine what it could be, all of the possibilities that occur to her impossible fancies and dreams. "When?"

"Here." His eyes are grave and determined as they meet hers. "In the garden. Tonight. Come out alone, after midnight, and I'll show you something that will answer all of the questions you have."

It's dangerous. She barely knows Marius.

But she feels like she's known him for far longer than she has, and she likes what she's seen and heard of this man.

It's foolish. He could hurt her, in various ways.

But her father will be in the house, and she's quite capable of screaming.

Smiling as she reaches through the bars once more, she grazes her fingers across his. "I'll be there, Marius. I look forward to learning the answers to at least some of your mysteries."

"I hope you find the answers to your liking, Cosette." Marius pulls away slowly, his expression now equal parts worried and determined. "For both our sakes, I truly hope you do."

XXX

Courfeyrac comes home to find Joly curled, wolf-form, across the softly snoring human body of Grantaire, sprawled gracelessly in front of the fireplace. Though Joly lifts his head and flips his tail a few times in greeting, Grantaire doesn't stir at all. Given the scent of alcohol permeating the entire front half of the house, Courfeyrac isn't terribly surprised.

Rubbing at the back of his neck, Courfeyrac tries to decide who he should accost first to try to get some idea about what happened.

"Joly left Grantaire alone at the university for a few hours." Bossuet bounds down the stairs and rests his head against Courfeyrac's shoulder from behind, watching his mate with a mixture of fondness and exasperation. "Apparently Armand, Geroux, and Paquet all decided it was a good chance to find out what exactly our pack is up to. Grantaire's response was to drink himself into a stupor."

"And now Joly feels responsible." Rubbing his head against Bossuet's, Courfeyrac sighs. "He shouldn't. I'm sure you've told him that?"

"I have. Enjolras has. I'm certain Musichetta will when he gets home, too." Bossuet shrugs. "Joly's gotten quite attached to the stray. He wants him to feel safe when he wakes. I think he's actually having some protective instincts kick in with regards to Grantaire, though it's always hard to tell with Joly. He tends to just like taking care of people, and from what he's told me he and Grantaire had a good conversation right before Joly left him."

"We're going to have to keep Grantaire away from other packs until we've settled the matter of his status." Walking over to Joly, Courfeyrac kneels down and strokes the other wolf's head. "You couldn't have known, Joly. And you brought him back home. You've already done all that could be expected of you."

Joly's eyes turn to Bossuet's, his ears flicking back and pinning themselves to his head.

"Actually…" Bossuet frowns. "Enjolras brought him home. Joly didn't know until two hours later that anything had happened."

Well, then. Enjolras brought their stray home. Had that been what he ran out of class so quickly to do? How had he known that Grantaire needed him? How had things gone with the other alphas, if any had been there? Armand and Geroux at least tended to be among the more reasonable alphas in the area, and Paquet generally didn't start trouble, though if Grantaire had initiated something none of the alphas would have any trouble reciprocating.

Running a hand through Grantaire's hair and over his face, Courfeyrac doesn't see any evidence of fresh injuries and just earns a slightly louder snore from the prone man. The only thing wrong with the wolf is that he reeks of alcohol, in a way Courfeyrac's only ever smelled Bahorel and humans stink before.

How well had Enjolras taken Grantaire's inebriated status?

Returning to stroking Joly's head, Courfeyrac tilts his own in inquiry. "Are you all right staying here?"

Joly huffs out a soft sound of acquiescence and settles his head down protectively on Grantaire's chest. It's harder to read Joly than it is Combeferre or Enjolras over the pack-bonds, because Joly isn't tied to him by a mate-bond and Enjolras is the one the pack-bonds all converge on, but Courfeyrac can still get a sense of contentment and determination.

Joly isn't upset about what happened. He just intends to be there when Grantaire wakes, because he's fairly certain Grantaire will need to see a friendly face.

Leaning forward, Courfeyrac kisses the space between Joly's eyes and scratches behind his ears at the same time, earning a whine of pleasure from Joly and a frantic swishing of his tail.

Standing, Courfeyrac claps Bossuet on the shoulder. He's not surprised when Bossuet settles down next to his mate, opening the book he had been carrying and leaning back so that his head is resting on Joly's stomach before starting to read aloud.

Perhaps the words will register somewhere in Grantaire's mind despite the overlay of alcohol, and he will learn about their current property laws and what the pack would like to change while he rests. Even if all he does is sleep, though, he'll wake to two friendly, non-threatening faces. After having faced down three alphas, Courfeyrac has no doubt that's what he'll need.

Turning away from Grantaire and heading deeper into the house, he follows his pack-bond with Enjolras towards the alpha's room.

He needs to see how much damage Grantaire has done to his own case, and what, exactly, Courfeyrac can do to fix it.

XXX

Courfeyrac lounges in the door to Enjolras' bedroom, waiting semi-patiently while Enjolras tries to finish the sentence that he's working on. For Courfeyrac patience involves not trying to actively disturb someone, but he's still moving almost constantly, examining his fingernails, switching from leaning on one side of the door to the other, rifling through his bag as though he doesn't have memorized everything that's in it. His mind is similarly busy, and though he doesn't actively send anything across their pack-bond his proximity and volatility still make his concern and eagerness to have Enjolras' attention a distraction.

Giving up on writing anything more coherent in the article that he's been working on since he got home, Enjolras carefully puts his pen down and turns to his gamma.

"Permission to distract you?" Courfeyrac grins as he speaks.

"You know it's granted." Enjolras tries to sound exasperated, but it's hard to maintain exasperation with Courfeyrac. It helps that Courfeyrac doesn't normally interrupt his work unless he feels that he has something important to talk about.

"How are you feeling?"

It's not the question Enjolras was expecting, and he hesitates for a moment, taking a quick self-inventory. "All right. Still stretched a bit thin, but much improved from last night. By tomorrow I expect I'll be back to full strength."

"Good. I'm glad to hear it." Courfeyrac moves over to his side, the female keeping his head tilted down, submissive. Reaching into his bag, Courfeyrac pulls out a small book. "My notes from this afternoon. I think you'll find the third case the most interesting. A travesty of justice still occurred, but the original judge did lighten the sentence due to extenuating circumstances. A decision that was made useless later when the convicted was deemed a recidivist, but the precedent is still there."

"Thank you, Courfeyrac. I'm sure I'll find it fascinating." Enjolras takes the proffered notes. "What is it that you really want to talk to me about, though?"

"I really wanted to talk to you about your health, you know." Courfeyrac pouts, clearly put out that Enjolras knows there's something more he's hedging up to. "I worry about you. Especially because if anything happens to you Combeferre and I will be left with the pack and your work, and though we would certainly do the best we could…"

There is suddenly the scent of fear in the room, subtle but unmistakable.

It's a scent that doesn't go well with Courfeyrac's cheerful smile, but Enjolras can see the truth of the fear through their pack-bond. Courfeyrac doesn't even try to hide his unease, as most dominant wolves would. He accepts it, embraces it even, his concerns that Combeferre's mind would find holding their hodge-podge pack together a greater strain than it could handle, that even if they kept the pack together and continued their work a broken-hearted alpha and beta with a demoralized pack wouldn't manage to get very far.

Enjolras doesn't remember moving. All he knows is that Courfeyrac is now in his arms, the other female hugging him tightly in return. He stays like that for a few seconds, waiting for Courfeyrac's fears to settle down, and then holds the other female out at arm's length. "Black night, Courfeyrac, it was just a bit of exhaustion. It was nothing—"

"Not this time. Maybe not any time." Courfeyrac shrugs, a lopsided, sad smile on his face. "But we can't know that. It's what you're trying to impress upon the stray, isn't it? What we're doing is dangerous. Any or all of us could die. And if you died, Enjolras… White Lady, if any of us died it would be a terrible blow, and I don't want to say your death would be more terrible than any other, but it would make things… difficult. It would put stress on Combeferre and I that other deaths wouldn't. But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about."

Courfeyrac hadn't intended Enjolras to see that, to see his silent worries, his unspoken fears. But he wasn't one to back away even from a painful truth, so once Enjolras had seen a bit of it he allowed all of it to come forth. He would really appreciate it, though, if his alpha would stop reading his soul for a moment and instead focus on his words.

"Apologies." Smiling ruefully, Enjolras lets his pack-bond with Courfeyrac slip through his mental grasp, his awareness of the other female's emotions fading back to the level that the rest of the pack is currently at. Releasing his physical hold on Courfeyrac, as well, he returns to his seat. "Had there been something else you wished to talk to me about?"

"You know what my favorite object of conversation has been for the last few days, Enjolras." It's Courfeyrac's turn to give a rueful smile as he perches on the edge of the desk, careful not to disturb any of the books or papers there. "What happened with our stray today?"

"Some of the other alphas became aware that he was unescorted and decided it was a fine time to approach him with questions about our pack. From what he told me, Armand and Geroux spoke with him before I found him, and Paquet was there when I arrived." Enjolras frowns. "He wasn't really capable of explaining more fully, and having seen several of you drunk before I thought it best to wait for him to sober up somewhat before questioning him further." A quick check of his pack-bond with Joly reveals the other wolf still content by the fire. "Unfortunately he doesn't seem to have moved since we came home. Joly said he'll come tell me when Grantaire's awake."

"I'm certain he will." Courfeyrac's foot kicks against the base of the desk a handful of times, the other female's expression considering. "How did you know where to find him or that he needed you?"

"Ah. A pack-bond keeps trying to snap into place with him." Sighing, Enjolras rubs at his eyes with his left hand. He forgets, sometimes, that Courfeyrac hasn't been with him for as long as Combeferre. The three of them work so well together that it sometimes seems as though he's always had them, his beta and gamma. Courfeyrac hasn't seen him traveling, though, hasn't seen the way his power attempts to draw people to him if he isn't careful in controlling it. "I've trimmed it back again, because he needs to ask and the pack needs to vote on the matter before I bring him in properly, but that potential is how I sensed his distress. He's what distracted me during class."

Courfeyrac is silent for a moment, considering, and Enjolras forces himself not to reach again for their pack-bond. Courfeyrac will say what he wants to when he's ready. "And you and Paquet didn't have any kind of altercation when you retrieved him?"

"No." Shaking his head, Enjolras leans back in his chair. "Though we may not always agree, Paquet's too smart to risk engaging me in an alpha struggle. Besides, all I wanted to do was get Grantaire out of there before more trouble occurred."

"It was kind of you to bring him home." Courfeyrac stills, a sign that he's thinking carefully about his words. "And it's good of you to say that you'll invite him into the pack. It must even be something you want, yes, if the pack-bond potential is already so strong?"

"Courfeyrac." Enjolras frowns at his gamma. "Just say what you want to say."

Heaving a long-suffering sigh, Courfeyrac stands and begins pacing. "I was trying to subtly find your opinions about the stray, especially since you seemed to have some reservations last night. I should know better than to try subtlety with you, though. Sharp and clear, straight to the point, that's the alpha that I love, so to be perfectly frank: what are your opinions of Grantaire, what fears do you have about adding him to the pack, how badly has he sabotaged himself today, and what can I do to mitigate your fears?"

"I think he's the worst candidate for our pack that's been presented so far, especially by you. I think he's a drunkard, a man whose mind and soul have learned cynicism more strongly than any other I have touched, a man who will find it very difficult to fight for the ideals that we intend to fight for and, as you said, possibly, maybe even probably, die for."

Courfeyrac's face is a study in dismay, the pack-bond between them suddenly bright with a thousand permutations on denial and sorrow and consternation.

"I also think there's hope for him." Enjolras smiles, opening his mind to his gamma once more, allowing him to see both the reticence and the potential that Enjolras feels when considering their stray. "He listens. He has a clever mind, when he allows it to work. He's kind, and he fits in well with the pack—all those who have spent time with him like him and intend to have him accepted."

Courfeyrac relaxes, a tentative smile appearing on his face. "I will admit, that's rather more what I was hoping you'd say."

"He's not the wolf I would have chosen. But he needs us, in a way that no other wolf has. Turning him away because of his politics, when it's something that we may be able to teach him…" Enjolras closes his eyes, reading the contentment from both Joly and Bossuet as they watch over the sleeping Grantaire. "As for what you can do… tell me that having him die for my causes, having him die for _me_, is not unjust. Tell me that placing him in danger that I fear—that I _know_—he doesn't understand is not an abuse of my power."

Courfeyrac's arms wrap around Enjolras' shoulders, Courfeyrac's lips gentle against his neck as the female nuzzles him. "He knows there is danger, Enjolras. He told Jehan what we're doing is dangerous. If he chooses that danger for friendship and a home rather than ideology… is it really so different from the rest of us? Combeferre is your oldest, most devoted follower, and he certainly shares your beliefs, but I also know he would gladly die for you in unrelated endeavors. I know I would die for you or any other in the pack, whether the danger comes from our cause or from an unrelated source."

Enjolras' hands tighten on Courfeyrac's arms, his mind filling again with Courfeyrac's well-tread fears. They mix with his own musings on their mortality, the questions that he ponders in the quiet of the night when no others should be awake to sense the tumult it causes.

They are his wolves. They are his responsibility, and his priority should be to keep them safe.

They are not safe, though. There is no way he could keep them safe. Their world is fraught with dangers that should not be, injustices that cannot be allowed to stand, and the only way to truly make them safe is to change everything.

They agree with him. They stand with him. They may fall with him, of their own volition, and he hopes he will be strong enough to take the mental scars of having their souls ripped away from his with his sanity intact.

"Ah, Enjolras." Courfeyrac's arms are tight enough around him to bruise, but neither of them wants to pull away. "We need to not tread so often in such dark places. Thinking so much of death is asking the Black Night to pay a visit."

"He would find this a rather inhospitable place right now." Forcing his hands to relax their hold on Courfeyrac, setting his mind to start scanning the pack-bonds in order to push away all else, Enjolras rubs his head against Courfeyrac's. "The revolution won't be tomorrow, unfortunately. And between Joly and I and the fact that most in the pack are mate-bonded it would take a great deal to kill one of us. I would say it's time to table thoughts of death and dying, at least until they can do something productive."

"Agreed." Courfeyrac straightens slowly. "Also, since the revolution likely won't be tomorrow, perhaps it shouldn't weigh so heavy in your mind when thinking of Grantaire."

"There are other concerns, you know." Turning so that he can see Courfeyrac, Enjolras pushes dark blond curls hair away from Courfeyrac's eyes. "What will he do with the pack? Will he study? Will he work? Will he assist us with our revolutionary work?"

"I think he'll try to do anything that we ask of him." Courfeyrac shrugs. "What he'll have an aptitude for, we'll see. Does that cover all of your fears?"

"All of the important ones. It does leave the drinking, though." Enjolras wrinkles his nose once more in displeasure. "He's far more prone to drinking than any wolf should be, and it affected his behavior today. He tried to nuzzle against me in public. He submitted blatantly, without any pretext at humanity, when I first entered the tavern where he was. Incidents like that could be dangerous. We want to control when the humans find out about us, Courfeyrac."

"Humans will forgive just about any odd behavior if alcohol is involved." The grin on Courfeyrac's face makes Enjolras wonder what stories the female has that he hasn't shared. "And I know you don't understand why we occasionally do it, but Joly and Bossuet and Bahorel also drink, and you don't seem terribly upset when I join in with them."

"I also don't sleep with any of you when you have been. I don't like the smell or the way it muddles your thoughts and emotions. It makes the pack-bond feel… off."

"He hasn't ever been this drunk before." Courfeyrac's gaze moves to the wall, as though he could see down to the fire and the stray in front of it. "Something must have upset him greatly."

"He was afraid of them." Enjolras speaks quietly, remembering the distress and helplessness that had first called his attention. "It was… a strange thing to feel."

"It'll be better, once he's pack." The cheerful grin is back on Courfeyrac's face. "He'll have the rest of us to defend him. There are some alphas even I wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley, and being a submissive stray… I can understand why it frightened him. But I am glad that you'll let him be one of us, Enjolras."

"It's what the pack seems to want. It's what he wants." Turning back to the article he had been writing before, Enjolras tries to reclaim his train of thought.

"And you?" Courfeyrac's hands are gentle on his shoulders, massaging. "Is it what you want, Enjolras?"

He pauses, considering the question. He has his doubts, still. There are always doubts before something is done. But underneath the doubts, leaving aside the fears…

"Yes." He smiles, closing his eyes as Courfeyrac's fingers work. "Yes, it's what I want."

It's the answer Courfeyrac had been hoping to hear, fearing he wouldn't, and the burst of exuberant joy that floods through their pack-bond and into Enjolras is enough to keep him smiling until Combeferre comes to collect him for supper.

XXX

Marius circles the block where Cosette's house is situated, trying to keep moving, trying to keep warm despite the wind and the clear sky.

He shouldn't go this evening. He shouldn't have ever made the offer in the first place. What does he think it's going to accomplish, giving this human so much power over him—over his people?

She wants to know, though. He suspects she may know already, or at least have a guess, though her rational mind will tell her that it's impossible foolishness. Their status as myth and legend, something that educated, civilized men don't believe in, has been what's kept their people safe for the last century. It was part of why his grandfather had been so furious with his father. How dare the man take Pack members into battle? How dare the man risk his life and the lives of his pack and the safety of the whole Pack for a _human_?

For the longest time Marius had agreed with him. His grandfather was alpha, after all, and Marius' mother had apparently felt it too dangerous to follow his mate, instead returning to his father's pack with his young pup in tow.

He wishes, once more, that he could talk with his mother about it, that his mother hadn't died when he was too young to understand the complexities of the situation. Had he left because he didn't accept Marius' father's plans, or had he left because he had a pup that was still too young to do without at least one parent? Had he intended to return to Marius' father when the wars were over?

Marius doesn't know. All he knows is that when finally he met his father, the man was magnificent, an alpha to be followed and respected even in his dying, and the words he spoke had struck Marius to the core of his being.

Why shouldn't wolves respect an alpha just because he was human? Why shouldn't wolves be able to fight and live and die for who they wanted?

Why should he be afraid to tell this human, who has shown him nothing but kindness in both his forms, who he is?

He knows why. He knows the danger it could bring to the Pack if she handles it badly. He knows their history, how the streets have run red with their blood, with human blood, with the blood of everyone who is even a tiny bit different whenever the humans became too frightened of the creatures that might lurk next to them in the night.

She is female, at least. Humans seemed to find it difficult to respect or trust their females, locking them away, ignoring or silencing their voices, so even if she reacts badly the chances that others will trust her about what he is are slim. He can simply disappear back into the night, find somewhere else to hide from his people as well as hers.

Hunching his shoulders against another gust of frigid wind, Marius prays to the White Lady that he isn't making a very grave mistake.


	14. Part Thirteen: Revelation

_Part Thirteen: Revelation_

Cosette doesn't know what to wear.

It's a silly thing to consider, but it weighs on her mind anyway. Does she wear her nightgown? It will be easiest to convince her father that nothing's wrong if he catches her if she's in her nightgown. If he catches her inside she can say she went for water or to stretch her legs or that she was having a nightmare; if he catches her outside she can say she was feeling trapped, that she wanted to see the moon and stars and that she'll head right back into bed.

On the other hand, she doesn't really want Marius to see her in her nightgown. It feels far too forward. No to mention the fact that it will be colder in her nightgown, even if she wears her coat and shawl over it.

But if she dresses, what will she tell her father if he catches her? Will he believe that she simply decided to get dressed to go for a midnight stroll in the garden?

Perhaps she shouldn't consider being found out in her decision, though. Did it make her more likely to be found out if she worried about it? Did—

"Cosette, are you well?" Papa's voice is gentle, just the slightest hint of worry in it.

Smiling at the man, fighting not to blush, she nods. "Quite well, Papa."

"Are you certain?" He frowns, setting aside his book. "You've seemed… odd, the last few hours. Has something happened to make you upset?"

Upset? No. Upset is certainly not the right word for the giddy, excited, nervous feeling that is currently filling her chest. A soft laugh slips from her lips before she can stop it. "No, papa. I'm not upset about anything. I've just been thinking…"

Her father smiles, leaning towards her. "Oh? Thinking about what, to bring so much liveliness and deep thought to your face?"

Biting at her lip, Cosette quickly sorts one small truth from the cacophony of thoughts that have been battling in her head the last few hours. "Papa, do you think that we could have a dog?"

"A dog?" Her father blinks before leaning back in his chair, a low laugh rumbling in his throat.

Pouting slightly, she turns away. "It isn't anything to laugh about, Papa. I'm serious."

"I'm sorry, child. I meant no offense. I just find the idea of me owning a dog to be… I suppose ironic is close enough to the proper word." He continues to smile, though he no longer laughs. "What's brought this on all of a sudden?"

"Seeing the stray the other night made me think that I'd like to have a dog. He could be my companion, and he would help to safeguard the house if you need to be away." Folding her hands in her lap, she meets her father's gaze evenly. "We can feed him scraps from the kitchen. Surely dogs don't eat that much."

"It depends on the size and how hungry you want the beast to be." A bemused expression crosses his face. "You're really quite serious about this, aren't you?"

"I am." She nods, smiling as she thinks of Wolf's thick fur and warm eyes.

He taps the book against his leg gently, considering the idea. "Is there a particular dog that you have your eye on, or is this simply a fancy for any dog?"

"There may be one I'm interested in—or at least a particular type." She hesitates, debating how much to tell her father. She doesn't know exactly why she wants to keep Marius and Wolf a secret, but she does. For now, at least, she wants them to be hers, hers alone, her strange, curious, magic creatures. "There's a man who has a dog, a great big beast with the gentlest, kindest eyes you've ever seen. He's licked my hand before—the dog, not the man, of course. And I've been thinking that it would be nice to have a dog like Wolf of my own."

"And these dreams of a dog are what's made you smile so?" Her papa is grinning now, an expression that makes him look young despite his gray hair, that brings joy into his dark brown eyes.

"Yes." Studying her hands gives her an excuse not to meet his eyes as her cheeks heat again. It isn't entirely a lie, and that's why she can say it. Thinking of having a dog such as Wolf—of having Wolf as her dog, even—makes her heart soar.

The fact that Wolf's eyes quickly become Marius' in her mind, that she hears his soft, cautious voice telling her a censored version of the truth whenever there is silence… those things are things she will keep to herself, for now.

"Let me think on it for a few days." Still smiling, her father opens the book. "It would be difficult, with how much we travel, but we may be able to have a small dog. Or perhaps a cat. Some small animal for you to love, at least."

She tries to smile broadly, eagerly, as she turns back to her own book. She hasn't managed to read anything on the page, but since she's been staring at the same page for the last several minutes she decides to turn it anyway.

She still hasn't decided what she will wear, but tonight and Marius' secrets can't come fast enough.

XXX

He slips through the bars with the ease of practice, barely noticing the brush of cold iron against his skin.

What if she doesn't come? What if he waits in the garden, and she never comes? Should he show himself to her tomorrow, or should he take that as a sign and leave before things become more complicated?

What if she _does_ come? Can he really do it? Can he really just _show_ her what he is? What if she screams? What if she hates him? What if—

"Monsieur Marius?"

Her voice is quiet, frightened, and he tries hard not to startle her as he moves forward and lifts his eyes to take in her appearance.

She's beautiful. She's dressed in a different gown than the one she had worn in the afternoon, a loose, simple white dress that's covered by a thick coat and a thicker shawl. He thinks her dress is white, at least. It may be simply a pale yellow or cream or blue. It's hard for even his human-form eyes to make out colors in the dark, though he knows he can see movement much better than any human ever could.

"Monsieur Marius?" The fear fades from her voice as she sees him, a bright smile taking its place. "I was beginning to fear that you wouldn't come, that you would decide to keep your secrets secret. That would have made me very distraught, monsieur, especially after I went to all the trouble of dressing and slipping out. We should stay quiet, and stay away from the house, because my father is a very light sleeper. And I should stop babbling, I know, but I'm so happy to see you, monsieur."

"Marius."

She stares at him, questioningly.

Taking a slow step towards her, aware of the fear still showing in the way her arms are crossed over her chest, he repeats himself. "Marius. Please, just call me by my name."

"All right, Marius." Cosette's breath fogs the night air as she smiles, ducking her head and dropping her eyes. "And remember to call me Cosette."

"Cosette." Her name is beautiful. She is beautiful, and he feels an urge to protect her, to guard her, to defend her that he hasn't ever felt with anyone before.

It's because he hasn't interacted with enough humans, not like this. It's because her human fear—her uncertainty at being out alone, at night, with a strange man—is making her act submissive, head down, eyes darting low and not meeting his, arms protecting her vulnerable spots. He may not be an alpha as his father and grandfather were, but he's strong enough that he tends to feel protective instincts for subordinate wolves.

Or he did, once, when he allowed himself the pleasure of their company. When he wasn't exiled from his grandfather's pack, not strong enough to build one of his own, a pariah for sharing the beliefs of his father.

"Marius?" Cosette takes a step towards him, her breath fogging the air between them, and they are suddenly close enough that he could touch her if he stretched out his arm. "Is everything all right?"

"I… don't know how to go about doing this." He still hasn't decided if he wants to go through with this. Hours worth of contemplation has left him just as confused and conflicted as he had been when he made the impulsive offer to share his secrets.

"Is it really so complicated and strange?" She reaches out and takes his winter-chilled hand in her gloved fingers.

"Complicated, yes. Strange… it will be to you, though for me it is simply my life." His fingers move slowly, gently, so he won't startle her, tracing the lines of her fingers and palm.

"Would it help if I asked questions?" Her voice is eager, her eyes shining brightly, and most of the fear has left her stance and scent.

"I don't know." He shrugs, bemused, smiling as he meets her eyes.

She doesn't submit or try to show dominance. She simply smiles and stares back into his eyes, all bright curiosity and warmth. "A simple one, then. Did you bring Wolf with you, or is he at home?"

He laughs. He can't help it. It would seem a simple question to a human, and yet it cuts straight to the heart of the matter. "I suppose you could say I brought Wolf with me, yes."

Cosette's smile fades, a pout taking its place. "It's really nothing to laugh at me for. I am trying to help you, you know. Do all men laugh at women when they're making perfectly sensible suggestions or inquiries?"

"I wouldn't know. I've met only a sampling of men, and it may have been a poor one." His free hand rises tentatively, brushes at strands of hair that have slipped free to frame her eyes. "You're right, though. I shouldn't have laughed. It's simply that you plunged straight to the heart of the matter without even realizing it."

"Truly?" A look of puzzlement crosses her face. "I apologize for that, then. Where is Wolf, though? Did you tie him up on the street? Did you leave him outside the gate?"

"If you truly want to know…" Marius draws a deep breath, knowing what he's going to do. Let his people damn him if they will. This human, to him, right now, is worth all of their carefully-hoarded lives. "If you truly want to know, I can show you. But know that it may frighten you. Know that it will change everything about the way you see the world. This is knowledge that, once learned, can never be unlearned. And know that it could be dangerous for you to know."

Cosette pauses, her eyes wide, the sharp scent of fear suddenly in the air again. "I don't understand. You're talking about your secret. What does that have to do with Wolf's location?"

"Wolf's location _is_ my secret." Letting go of her hand, he takes a reluctant step back, giving her space. If she panics, he doesn't want her to feel trapped by him. "I can tell you what I am. I will _show_ you what I am, as proof. If you want to know, I will give you this power over me, because you have been incredibly kind."

"Werewolf." She breathes the word, her hands moving to cover her lips immediately. "Forgive me, monsieur. I know it's foolish. It's just a story, but it keeps coming to mind…"

"Werewolf." Marius hesitates for a moment, thrown off by her use of the word that should have been his. Perhaps he hasn't been so clever and careful as he thought he had been. "Yes. That's what the humans call my people. Werewolf. Man who can become wolf, wolf who can become man. Wolf is here because I am here. Wolf lives within my skin, just as I live within his."

"And you can prove it?" Her hands fall away from her mouth, eagerness shining from every inch of her body, the fear-scent fading. "You can show me?"

He smiles. "If you want me to."

"Yes. Oh, yes."

Taking a deep breath, trying to ignore the cold, he strips out of his coat and vest as quickly as he can before moving to unlace his shirt and trousers. The night is partially overcast, though the moon shines down brightly, so at least it's slightly warmer than some—

"What are you doing, monsieur?" Cosette has taken a step away from him, hands raised defensively, her face turned away, eyeing him with her peripheral vision. Startled horror fills her voice, and the scent of fear is suddenly strong again. "I warn you, if you try anything, it will only take a single cry to have my father—"

"I can't Change when I'm d-d-dressed." His teeth are starting to chatter from the cold, but his fingers still. "Well, I c-c-_could_, but they're my only c-c-clothes. I need to not b-b-break them."

"Oh." Lowering her hands, Cosette eyes him uncertainly. "Then I suppose I'll have to look away."

"Why?" A gust of wind brings snow onto his arms, onto his face, and he shivers.

"Well, because you'll be _nude_. You're a man, and you'll be naked." Her hands move, flustered. "And… and…"

"Cosette, I just t-t-told you I'm a _werewolf_." He knows, vaguely, that humans disapprove of nudity. It hasn't been an issue for him, though. His lack of a place to Change safely and the cold weather has meant he hasn't run up against the taboo. "Are you really more scared of my nakedness than t-t-that?"

"I'm not frightened. It's just… it's not…" A sheepish smile turns the corners of Cosette's mouth up as she turns her head to face him evenly again. "I suppose… it sounds rather silly when you say it that way. And I do very much want to see the magic."

"And I would very much like to C-C-Change, because it's c-c-cold." He's shivering convulsively now, the Change hovering just on the edge of his control. His body wants to protect itself from the wind, from the chill, from the snow, and since he's removing his clothes fur is the next best option.

"Please do. I'll be still and not frightened, I promise." Dark roses bloom in her cheeks, a blush that the night paints in shadowed hues. "Though if you could turn around or cover your… _maleness_… it may make this easier for me."

He doesn't wait for a second invitation. Turning away from her, very aware of the feel of her eyes on his back, he quickly strips off the rest of his clothing and allows the Change to sweep over him.

XXX

It's awful.

That's the only word that she can hold in her mind as she watches Marius' body shift. It's the only proper word, because the thing she is watching, the magic, is both magnificent and terrible.

It's terrible to see the way his body _stretches_, moves, twists, bones and skin changing in ways that her mind tells her it shouldn't be able to do. It's terrible to imagine how much it must _hurt_, and her hands are covering her mouth to keep any sound from escaping as she watches.

It's also magnificent. It's _amazing_, the way fur sprouts from his body, the way he falls forward onto four feet as his arms lengthen and his legs shorten. It's _wonderful_, wonderful and frightening, to know that something like _this_, that magic like this, truly exists in her world.

And then it's over. It couldn't have lasted that long, she knows. A half a minute, maybe, between when he turned away from her and when Wolf turns back, his eyes luminous in the moonlight, his tongue hanging from his mouth again.

He takes a cautious step towards her, his head held low, his ears pricked forward.

"It's true. It's really true." Bending down, she stretches out her hand towards the creature. "You're Wolf. You're both Marius and Wolf."

Wolf—Marius—yips, a short, sharp sound of assent, and his tail begins swishing frantically back and forth.

"Hush! Hush, you silly thing. You'll wake Papa." Placing a finger to her lips, she allows her other hand to creep forward until the fingers can brush against Wolf's—Marius's—face, fondle at his ears.

Which is, perhaps, not what one should do with a werewolf. Her fingers still as she stares at this impossible, beautiful creature. How should she talk to him? How should she treat him? What—

Wolf's head comes forward, presses up against her hand impatiently, and she automatically begins to scratch at his ears again. He settles down with a contented huff, his tail continuing to sweep along the ground, creating miniature snow flurries.

"You're a werewolf. Werewolves are real. You are a real werewolf." She laughs, softly, delighted. "No one will believe me if I tell them."

Wolf's head comes up, his eyes narrowing and his ears pinning back against his skull. After a moment's quiet contemplation he shakes his head, slowly, back and forth.

It's the most human gesture she's ever seen from him. It's extremely disconcerting.

"No? You think people will believe me?" She smiles, teasing at the tip of one ear. "Then you haven't been talking with people very long. They…"

Wolf's head moves back and forth again, a strong, slow, awkward negation, and a low whimper comes from his throat.

"Oh." She understands, remembering the other time Wolf cried, remembering Marius' hesitancy to speak of his secrets. "You don't want me to tell other people."

His ears prick back up and his tongue hangs out as he begins to pant, staring straight at her with Marius' eyes.

"A secret. Your secret." Her fingers brush the fur around his eyes. "Don't worry, Marius. I'll keep it, I promise. Oh, this brings up so many other questions, though! Why must I keep you secret? How did you come to be like this? How many of your people are there? What other kinds of creatures are there? Do vampires exist? Do the faerie people exist?"

Wolf's head tilts slowly to the side, and her fingers continue to scratch. Eventually he is flat on his back, his legs sprawled in the air, and her fingers are buried in the thick, warm fur of his neck.

"Are ghosts real? Are demons real—really real, present in this world real, ready to carry our souls away?" She pauses, her fingers pulling back from Wolf's fur without conscious volition. "You aren't a demon, though. You couldn't be. You're too…"

She tries to think of a word that won't be insulting to him and fails. It's just impossible to imagine this great beast with his beautiful brown fur as a demon. Demons didn't have you throw sticks for them for hours. Demons didn't lounge in the snow with their legs to the sky, tails waving frantically. Demons didn't lick your hand, their tongue gentle, or run from you in merry chase around the garden.

Did they?

Wolf stares up at her, rolling all the way over so that his eyes are right side up again.

No, she decides, smiling as she leans down to place a kiss between his eyes. No, demons couldn't possibly be as _endearing_ as this creature is. "Would it be too forward to say that you're endearing? Though I suppose I did just kiss you. This is really quite unfair, Marius. I've gotten so used to treating Wolf as a dog that it's hard to remember now that he's not."

Marius tilts his head, his beautiful eyes studying her.

"Though these help." Her fingers trace the fur around his eyes again. "The fact that you keep your eyes definitely helps. I have so many questions, though. Would it be terribly difficult for you to change back again so that we could talk? Because I fear that wolf language was not one of the things they taught us at the convent."

He stands, shaking himself off, and moves over to his clothes. Gently, he uses his muzzle and teeth to arrange the fabric to his liking before turning to her. He waits for her to nod resolutely before turning in a half-circle, his back to her once more.

It's just as fascinating to watch him turn from wolf to human form, just as disconcerting, and she finds herself holding her breath as he shakily stands and begins drawing on his clothing.

He's so calm about it, so nonchalant, that she almost forgets to avert her gaze as he slides into his undergarments and trousers.

When he's dressed again he stands, takes a step towards her, and sways alarmingly.

"Marius?" She has a hand on his arm before she even thinks to touch him, supporting some of his weight. His face is ghostly white, matching the snow, and his eyes don't seem to quite focus on her properly anymore.

"Cosette." He smiles, brushing his fingers against her face again. "I don't suppose you have something to eat near at hand? Because I…"

He doesn't finish the statement, his eyes rolling back in his head, and it's all Cosette can do to lower his body softly to the ground.

She has an unconscious werewolf in her garden.

She has an unconscious _male_ werewolf in her garden, and she doesn't know what's wrong with him.

"Marius?" She pats his face, gently, but he doesn't stir. "Marius, wake up. Marius, what's wrong?"

What had he asked for before he collapsed? Food. He asked if she had anything to eat at hand.

Laying her shawl over him to provide what extra warmth she can, her heart suddenly going far too fast, she heads for the kitchen.

She really hopes that she's right about what he needs, because she's never going to forgive herself if her magical man dies like this.

XXX

He wakes slowly, in stages, his body aching as it hasn't in a very long time.

First he's aware of warmth, surrounding him, in his mouth, in his throat. Then comes the taste of sweetness, sugar on his tongue, and he swallows appreciatively.

This is what he needs. He needs food. He needs energy. He pushed his body too far after too long on starvation rations, Changing too quickly in rapid succession, and the pounding in his head and the bruised feeling in all his muscles is the price he will pay for it.

Opening his eyes, he finds himself staring up at Cosette's face. Tears make her eyes shine like stars, and he reaches up tentatively to brush trails of liquid from her cheeks.

"Marius?" She clasps his hand in both of hers, holding it to her cheek, rubbing her skin against his hand in a gesture that reminds him very much of being with pack-mates. "Are you all right? Marius, please speak with me. Did I do what I should have? Do you need something else?"

He needs meat. He desperately needs meat, his stomach grinding against itself, but if he eats too soon it won't stay down. "I'll be fine. I just… over-exerted myself. I haven't been eating terribly regularly, and shifting quickly when it's not the full moon can be very draining."

"Then why did you do it?" Cosette stares down at him, her brows drawn together. "You could have just stayed as Wolf! You could have asked for food earlier."

"I was so caught up in speaking with you—showing you this—I didn't even realize how close I was to the edge." Sitting up causes all his muscles to seize, and he whimpers out a low breath. Cosette's shawl slips down from his chest, he loses the comfort of her body heat against his back, and the chill of winter returns with a vengeance. "What was it that you gave me?"

"Warm tea and honey." Cosette gestures to a cup, nestled in the snow next to her. "I had the tea already. The honey was in the cupboard, and I thought the warmth would be good given that it's cold. If you didn't wake up I was going to get Papa, but I didn't know what I'd tell him about you and—"

"You did well, Cosette." He takes her hand in his, smiling. "You did very well. If you'd let me have the rest of the tea and just rest here for a moment, I can answer the questions that you wanted to ask."

"You're sure?" Cosette bites at her lip, handing over the now lukewarm tea and rearranging the shawl around his shoulders. "If you need to go somewhere to get warm or get food—"

"I don't have anywhere to go." He makes the admission sheepishly, not meeting her eyes. "It's why I came here that first night. I was freezing to death. I needed somewhere to avoid the wind."

"That's terrible!" Taking his hand in hers, Cosette squeezes it tightly. "Aren't there other werewolves you could stay with? Do you have family or friends or… oh. Your grandfather, he's the one who threw you out, right? He's a werewolf, too?"

"It's… more complicated than that." Marius hesitates, taking another drink. He feels less shaky with every small bit that he drinks, though his stomach growls fiercely. "I left my grandfather's pack. I severed the pack-bond myself. I'm still young enough that it's acceptable behavior, though he… wasn't very happy with me. I haven't found a pack that I liked or that would accept my father's views."

"Pack-bond? Pack?" A bemused smile pulls at the corners of Cosette's mouth. "You have to speak more simply, Marius. I don't understand any of this. I didn't even know if it was silly to assume that your grandfather was also a werewolf!"

"Almost all werewolves are born to other werewolves. There are tales of humans who become Pack—that's what we usually call each other, Pack, or just wolves—but I've never met anyone like that. I think it might just be a story, a tale to intimidate pups with—don't trust old strays, they might be humans trying to slip into our world."

Cosette's expression falls, hurt showing around her eyes and in the downturn of her lips. "You don't like humans?"

"Well, I mean…" Rubbing at the back of his neck, Marius shrugs helplessly. "Humans have tried to exterminate us. Repeatedly. The human churches call us monsters and demons and call for our death. Hiding from humans has been the Pack's choice for the last few centuries, because the general consensus was that if we didn't we'd all die."

"That's terrible." Cosette's shoulders slump. "I'm sorry. I never even thought…"

"It's not your fault. It has nothing to do with you. You've only been kind." Cupping her face with one hand, he stares into her eyes. It still startles him, each time she simply meets his gaze, no hierarchy acknowledgement or struggle between them. "That's why I decided to trust you."

"I'm honored." A pleased smile makes Cosette's face radiant. "But tell me what the other things you said meant—pack-bonds? And what did you mean about the moon?"

"Um… pack-bonds are the magic that ties a pack together." Marius hesitates, seeing the look of confusion on Cosette's face. It's so hard to explain this in human terms, when it's something that he's just always _known_. "Every wolf has some magic of their own. It's what allows us to Change, to shift from wolf to man and back. The more magic someone has, the more dominant they are. Every pack has an alpha, the leader of the pack. The alpha is the most dominant member of the pack, and ties the magic of all the wolves in the pack together—usually five to seven adults and all the pups from birth to seventeen years old or so. The pack-bond lets pack members draw on each other's strength, share each other's emotions."

"You can read other wolves' _minds_?"

"No." He chuckles, turning it to a cough as Cosette's eyes narrow. "There are stories about wolves who can read each other's mind, their mate's or their pup's or a really strong alpha, but I don't think those are true, either. What we can do is sense emotion—anger, sadness, joy, fear, pain, hunger, anything really strong. It lets us find and help each other if we need to, keeps the pack together and bonded. When you have a pack, that is."

He doesn't miss it. He won't _let_ himself miss it, the touch of other minds on his, the camaraderie of other wolves, the simplicity of eating his fill and shifting whenever he wants to. The wolves wouldn't accept his father; they won't accept him; and that means he doesn't need them.

Especially now, when he has Cosette.

Standing, Cosette rubs at her arms. "It's so different. Marius, this is all just so incredibly _different_ than anything I've ever known."

"I could say the same thing back." Still holding the empty cup, Marius hauls himself to his feet, trying not to wince too much. "I haven't ever talked about this with someone who hasn't just _lived_ it all their life, who doesn't just… _understand_ it. And I've never known anyone who was afraid of seeing someone naked."

"You're perfectly fine seeing women naked?" Cosette's eyebrows both climb. "You've _seen_ women naked?"

"Pack females, yes." He shrugs. "Except for when they're very pregnant or have very young pups they're nursing, they pretty much look like Pack males."

"So different…" Cosette just stares at him in stunned silence.

"You'd asked about the moon." Marius smiles, reaching out to take her hand. At least she doesn't flinch back from him, though she blinks down uncertainty at their entwined fingers. "Did you want to know still, or has this already been too much?"

"I want to know." Squeezing his fingers tight, she smiles up at him. "It's amazingly overwhelming, and I can't promise that I'm going to understand or remember it all, but I love it, Marius. I want to know everything that you can tell me. Is it true that the moon controls when you change?"

"Yes and no." He smiles, tilting his head back so he can view the half-crescent of the Lady. "We all have to Change on the full moon. We can't control it. It's the price the Lady demands for us being what we are. And it's hardest to Change on the new moon, when she's sleeping and quiet, though it's certainly possible."

Cosette slowly leans her head against his shoulder, her eyes also fixed on the sky. "The Lady? Is that what you call the moon?"

"The White Lady. She's—"

The crash of the garden door opening cuts him off mid-thought.

"Cosette!" The voice is panicked, human, male, gruff. Footsteps crunch in the snow near the house. "_Cosette!_"

"Hide." Cosette pulls away from him immediately, her voice a rough whisper. "Hide, Marius. Don't go far, though. I'll bring food as soon as I'm able, probably later tonight, and I'll see what I can do so far as finding a place for you to stay. _Hide!_"

He doesn't wait for her to repeat the command, running for the densest part of the garden, crawling under branches and through bushes, desperate to distance himself from the house and the angry human.

He can hear Cosette's voice, soft and laughing, but his ears aren't sensitive enough to make out what she says. Eventually, though, the door to the house opens and closes again, and he is left alone.

Huddling in his coat, Cosette's shawl wrapped around him for extra warmth, he settles down to wait. Inhaling the sharp, cold scent of snow, the rich, dry scent of hibernating vegetation, and the human, wonderful, unique scent of Cosette, he smiles.

He may not have a pack. He may not have a home. He may not even have the strength left to Change.

He has Cosette's trust and affection, though, and for now, that's quite enough.


	15. Part 14: A Human in Wolf's Clothing

**Author's Note:** Just to help clear up some confusion (though hopefully the chapter will as well), wolves that are referred to as female are biologically/reproductively female, capable of pregnancy and the like. The wolves just have a great deal less sexual dimorphism than humans—they're flat-chested most of the time, when they're not nursing young pups, and tend more toward the androgynous to masculine than to feminine human features. They all tend to pass as male in human circles because try telling an alpha female that he can't do something due to being female. It's not going to go over well. For the wolves, magic ability and its concordant dominance affect are much more important than gender. To keep from accidentally outing sex to humans, their society just uses male pronouns for everyone.

_Part Fourteen: A Human in Wolf's Clothing_

"Come on, stray."

A hand shakes his shoulder, and Grantaire blinks blurrily up at a shadowed face.

"Come on, Grantaire." The voice that goes with the blurred face is slightly annoyed. "Enjolras wants to keep you away from the other packs, and that means keeping you away from the university. So you're coming with me today, and I don't want to be late for work."

"I…" His head hurts, and his throat feels terrible, and his mouth _tastes_ terrible. "What am I supposed to be doing?"

Feuilly sighs, running a hand through his red hair, leaving it in disarray. "You're waking up and coming with me. Since you're already dressed, this shouldn't be too difficult. All right?"

Turning over, Grantaire stretches and sits up, feeling muscles protest. A wolf-shaped Joly raises his head off Grantaire's stomach, yawns, and twitches his tail in greeting to the higher-ranked Feuilly. Joly shifts closer to the fire, and to the human-form Bossuet and the wolf-form Musichetta who also apparently slept with them.

Feeling slightly more capable of talking now that he's partly vertical, Grantaire blinks Feuilly back into focus. "I thought I was supposed to talk with Enjolras when I woke up."

"That was before you slept through dinner and long into the night. Enjolras' already gone, meeting with a group of students." Feuilly frowns at Grantaire, clearly unhappy with the situation. "He'll talk to you later tonight, I'm sure. Until then he left you to my keeping, and I'm going to keep you at work with me. So get up."

"He's meeting with very foolish students, who believe like Enjolras does that sleep isn't important." Bossuet has pillowed his head on Joly's stomach, now; Musichetta also blinks an eye open and yawns at Grantaire before closing his eyes again. Bossuet reaches out to trail a hand along Musichetta's head, smiling up at Grantaire as he does. "You may want to go with Feuilly fairly quickly and behave yourself. Enjolras tends to value his opinion."

"I'm awake. I'm coming." Stumbling to his feet, Grantaire tries to sort his thoughts into order. How much did he drink yesterday?

Enough to survive talking with three alphas, one of whom may be frighteningly insane, and he really needs to talk to Enjolras about what Armand said.

First, though, he apparently needs to go with this red-haired wolf. This wolf who used to be human, and Grantaire finds himself suddenly much more interested in going with him. "Is it all right if I grab something to eat and wash up a bit first?"

"If you're quick." Feuilly settles down on the hearth, reaching over to stroke Joly's ears. "I woke you with enough time for you to eat. But no drinking. If I smell alcohol on you today after what happened yesterday, I'm going to be very annoyed."

"No drinking." He really doesn't like making this promise, but if Enjolras trusts this wolf's opinion and they're going to be spending the day together he should try not to start out by being antagonistic. "And I'll be back in a few minutes."

Rushing through his morning routine—glad to be somewhere that allows him to _have_ a routine, to wash up and eat and take care of his needs without fear—Grantaire suspects that today's going to be another very long day.

XXX

The stray actually works hard throughout the morning.

It surprises Feuilly in a way, which he supposes is unfair. Joly, Jehan, Bahorel, and Bossuet all seem fond of the stray, and they tended to be fairly good judges of character. Just because Grantaire spent one night drunk out of his mind after being intimidated by three alphas doesn't mean he's necessarily going to be a poor addition to the pack.

Perhaps it's just that Feuilly's own instinctive reaction to alphas varies so wildly from Grantaire's. Grantaire drank and sought escape that way; Feuilly has a tendency to fight, to back himself into a corner and defend though every wolf-saturated inch of his body warns him not to.

He's grateful, once more, that he found first Monet and then Enjolras' pack before he went stark raving mad.

Grantaire finishes unpacking the last box of supplies that Feuilly had been planning to get to later that day and straightens with a sigh. Bending his neck first one way and then the other, the stray carefully, cautiously makes his way over to where Feuilly's working.

"It's beautiful." Grantaire makes the admission simply, smiling as he does, his eyes scanning over the image that's slowly taking shape on the fan. "It's far better than most of the ones that you have on display."

"Yes, well, it's a commission for someone who actually appreciates the art and not just the novelty of the gift." Feuilly finds himself relaxing despite his terse words. He's impressed that Grantaire can tell the difference between the work he's doing here and the work he does when he's rushing to complete things. Though some of the Amis have an eye for art, he doesn't get to talk to them about it very often. "You have a good eye. Have you ever had any training?"

"The tutor my birth pack used taught us a bit, and I've talked with artists when I get a chance." Grantaire's hands brush near the inks that Feuilly's using, not actually touching them, reverence in his eyes. "I enjoy sketching when I can afford the time and materials, and I've learned a small amount about painting, but what I can do is very simple still."

"I'd be quite happy to see what you can do, if you wanted." He finishes the strokes he was working on, setting down the brush he had been using and picking up a thinner one to add detail to the image. "I'm always eager to see what others choose to draw and how they draw it."

"I'd be honored to show you, if you'd lend me something to draw on and something to draw with." Keeping his head bowed low, Grantaire takes a step back from the inks, twining his hands together behind his back.

He's purposefully making himself submissive while thanking Feuilly, his words and his actions all designed to let Feuilly know that he's the one in control, and it makes his wolf instincts relax but irritates the part of him that still uses human thought as the basis for all decisions. The exact inverse of how things had been throughout most of the morning, Feuilly's wolf nervous about Grantaire's lack of submission while Feuilly's saner human half appreciated the work the stray was doing, and Feuilly frowns as he continues to work. He keeps his voice low, though there's currently no one close by, always feeling ill at ease whenever he has to bring Pack business here. "You don't have to force yourself to submit to me. I spend most of each day working with humans. I used to _be_ human. I think I can handle your oddity."

"But…" Grantaire hesitates, his head coming up. "You're his iota. You're higher ranked than me. Plus, the others said he respects your opinion."

It takes Feuilly a moment to make sure that Grantaire's ranked him properly. He's not sure why the wolves use the Latin alphabet for their ranks, but it seems to come to them as easily as breathing, something he suspects they were all taught as children. It had been one of the first things they taught to him as well—one of the first things after explaining to him how to interpret the enormous amount of information his enhanced sense of smell was trying to give him, at least. "He respects all our opinions. He respects _me_, despite what I am. It's why I follow him."

"I think you're fascinating, actually." Grantaire turns away, though he keeps his head up.

Submitting but not, somehow managing to be both human and wolf, and Feuilly smiles. The stray's smart, finding a way to place Feuilly at his ease. Then the stray's words register, and Feuilly isn't sure exactly how he should feel. "Fascinating? Which part of me?"

"The fact that you were human and now you're… well, you're one of us." Reaching up to run his fingers along one of the fans on display, Grantaire shrugs. "I didn't even know it was really possible before you told me. I thought it might just be a myth. If you wouldn't mind telling me, I'd like to hear how it happened."

"That would involve me actually knowing exactly what happened." Feuilly pauses in his work, not wanting to make a mistake due to distraction. And memories of his first few Changes will always be a distraction. "Why do you want to know? Are you afraid of me?"

"Afraid? No." Grantaire actually laughs as he glances back at Feuilly. "There are many more concrete things I can be afraid of. I've known good humans as a stray; I've known bad wolves. I don't care that you were a human, but I think it's fascinating that you became a wolf. I want to know what you learned. I want to know… what it was like. I want to know what you think about our people." Grantaire's head drops and his voice lowers. "And I want to know what it was like when you met _him_."

Feuilly stares at Grantaire for a moment before sighing. Enjolras really isn't going to appreciate the stray's fixation on him.

On the other hand… on the other hand, he can understand what it's like to meet Enjolras after having dealt with other alphas, other wolves, the rest of wolf society. He can understand how impressive and unearthly Enjolras can seem.

That's not why he's come to love his alpha and his chosen pack or why he's happy to work beside them, but yes, if he pauses for a moment he can understand it.

"There are a few more boxes in back that need to be unpacked. Bring them up here and let me finish this. Then we'll get something to eat and I'll tell you about how I ended up with Enjolras' pack."

It won't be the easiest story he's ever told, because the memories of that time are always bright and hot whenever he goes near them, etched forever into his mind as moments of terror and pain, but if this stray is going to stick around he'll need to know.

XXX

Feuilly meets Enjolras before he becomes a wolf.

It's a friend who urges him to go to the meeting, another young man who's heard Enjolras speak before and been impressed by him.

Feuilly can understand why. Enjolras is one of the best speakers he's ever heard, a man who clearly cares passionately about his subject, a man who reads and reacts to the crowd with an almost super-human alertness and awareness. The people seem to like and respond to him, and Feuilly finds himself in agreement with most of what Enjolras says.

He still hangs back, during that first meeting. He's not sure if he entirely trusts these people. They're too well-dressed, too well-spoken, too sure of themselves, and too… insular is the word he finally settles on. They work with each other too well, reacting to each other almost before they speak, and it's probably just because they're so used to each other. It's probably nothing more or less than the aptitude of a group that's been doing this for some time, and it shouldn't bother him.

It does bother him, though. It bothers him as much as the look that Enjolras gives him, those deep blue eyes holding his for seconds that feel like eternity before finally dismissing him as Enjolras turns away to one of the students who came with him.

Feuilly leaves after that, but it takes hours for him to shake the chill that went down his spine at that look, an appraising look that managed to be hot as fire and cold as the emptiest night at the same time.

He would have remembered those eyes for the rest of his life, even if he didn't ever end up seeing the man again.

XXX

"Why did he look at you? What did he want with you? Did he _cause_ you to Change? Did—"

"I don't know, Grantaire. None of us know what caused me to Change. If it was Enjolras, it was unintentional. Now eat and listen."

XXX

Feuilly Changes for the first time a month later, in the spring, on the night of the full moon.

He doesn't know what's happening to him. He's terrified. He's _sick_, violently, physically sick, an illness that's been growing inside him since the previous full moon.

He thinks he's going to die.

He doesn't scream, only because there's no air in his lungs with which to scream. All he can do is lie prone on the ground, panting, retching, and wait for it to be over.

And it does pass, eventually. Unfortunately, when it passes, it takes his humanity with it.

At first he thinks he's blind. The range of colors that he can see is drastically limited, and his eyes are drawn far more to movement than to shape or shade. He tries to rub a hand across his eyes, and realizes exactly how much has changed.

He's not proud of how he reacts. He's not proud of how he screams, a long, low howl of agony and denial, or how he twists and scrambles until he's free of his clothes, or how he bolts out the window when his neighbors come knocking at his door.

He can't walk properly. It's impossible to walk on two legs, not with the monstrosity of a body that he's found himself in, and his disjointed human thoughts prevent the instincts that go with this body from getting any purchase.

He ends up curled in the corner of an alley, his head on his paws, his ears pinned back to his head, his eyes frantically watching for any threat.

He's just starting to calm down when the female wolf finds him.

He doesn't know that she's female at the time. He doesn't know much of anything, actually. He doesn't even know that she's not simply a stray dog.

He does know that she's kind, because she takes the time to approach him despite the fact that he's clearly terrified out of his mind. She moves slowly, one step at a time, waiting for him to relax each time before edging nearer. She keeps her head tilted to the side for most of it, her ears pricked forward, interested but not threatening.

And something inside of him, something that he's fairly certain hadn't been there that morning, responds to her. He—

XXX

"Are you talking about Monet?" Grantaire stares at him in puzzlement. "Because it's really, really weird to hear him referred to as a she. All wolves get male pronouns."

"I know that now." Feuilly frowns across at the other wolf. "I didn't know it _then_. Do you want me to tell you this story or not?"

"I'm sorry." Grantaire lowers his head meekly. "Please, continue."

XXX

He submits.

He doesn't know that's what happening. All he knows is that it feels right, that it feels safe, that he wants to turn his head to the side and drop his eyes and trust this creature.

Which isn't something that he's used to doing. He doesn't trust people without proper reason to. It's too dangerous to do so, and he pulls his head back around abruptly, baring his teeth as he stares at her, his body hunched and ready to run—well, stagger—again if he needs to.

She sits down, still watching him with that curious tilt to her head, and in the space of a few seconds shifts into a beautiful, naked woman. A woman with a chest as flat as any man's, but he can see clearly that she isn't male, so that's the only option.

"What's wrong with you?" She speaks clearly, her accent Parisian. "Are you hurt? I can smell your fear, but I don't smell any blood."

He wants to be human. He desperately, painfully wants to be human again, and she's shown him that it's possible.

Possible, but not easy, and he's panting in pain on the ground again when he finally has his human form back, the night suddenly far darker than it had been before.

The female stares at him in consternation. "There's something really wrong with you, isn't there? Are you sick? I don't smell silver."

She moves toward him again and he pulls back, bracing himself against the wall, self-consciously trying to hide his nakedness.

"Shh, it's all right." She croons the words low in her throat, in a voice that would fit more with a young man than with a young woman. "I'm not going to hurt you. You're young enough that being a stray's fine, and this is my pack's land. You're safe. Let me see what's wrong with you."

"Who are you?" His throat feels scratchy and dry, and he swallows convulsively. "_What_ are you? What's happening to me?"

"Hush, hush. It's all right. Let's start with the easy bits. What's your name?"

He hesitates, not sure if he should give his name, not wanting to have this—whatever _this_ is—actually connected with his life. On the other hand, this woman has literally seen him naked. Providing his name can't really give her too much more power over him. "Feuilly. My name's Feuilly."

"Feuilly. That's a good name. My name's Monet. I'm a part of the pack that controls this area. My mother's the beta; if I decide to stay I'll likely be beta or gamma." Monet keeps her voice low, but it isn't hard to make out her words. He seems to hear things too clearly, now, the entire city a cacophony that he was trying to escape by hiding here. "That's why when I tell you that it's safe, you can trust me."

"Beta? Gamma? Pack?" He pushes sweat-damp hair out of his eyes, feeling laughter build up in his chest despite the fact that there's really nothing funny about the situation. "I don't understand this at all, Monet. Your words don't _mean_ anything to me. I just… what have I become? _What's happening to me?_"

"You're Pack. It's the full moon. You Changed." Monet holds out a hand, palm-up, before sidling forward to touch his arm. "How much do you remember? When did you start not feeling well?"

"Last month. Last month on the full moon." He manages to choke the laughter back down, and he only flinches a bit when she touches him. "I felt ill, but it passed. Then yesterday… yesterday was bad. And today… today I thought I was going to die, and instead I turned into… into…"

"Wait." She pauses, her hand on his shoulder, her eyes widening. "Wait, wait, wait. Is this the first time you Changed? Are you… you're _human_?"

"I was." He swallows, hard, to keep from saying anything that he might regret later, to keep the panic down inside where it belongs. "If by Changed you mean turned into a four-legged monstrosity of nature, then yes. This is the first time I've Changed."

"Oh." She is suddenly backing away from him, her expression worried, closed-off, frightened. "Black night, you're a _human_. You're a _human_."

She's going to leave him. She's going to abandon him, in this world that suddenly doesn't make sense, and his heartrate speeds up as blind terror takes hold.

He doesn't mean to Change again, but it happens without his permission, and he whines low in his throat, lost and hurt.

Monet halts, turning slowly back to him. For a moment her face is frozen, unreadable.

Then she begins inching toward him again, and her fingers bury themselves in the fur of his neck. "You poor thing. You don't even know how to control this."

He doesn't like being called a poor thing. He's never liked being seen as weak, and he forces his head up, raises his eyes to meet hers.

They drop away again without his wanting them to, his body stilling, that sense of wanting to lie quiet and accept what she does with him rising again.

He doesn't like it. He doesn't like that his body wants to show respect to this woman when his mind hasn't decided to, that this monstrous body apparently affects his mind and heart as well, and he can feel the fur along his back rise as his lip curls in a frightened, angry snarl.

Monet pulls back again, but not as far this time. Biting on her lower lip, she watches him, not bothering at all to hide her nakedness. "I can't leave you here. It's too dangerous. Other humans could find you, or…"

She leans forward, rubbing her face against his, placing her head above his. "You'll have to trust me. I can only imagine how frightening this is for you, but I'm asking this for your sake and for the sake of my people. Trust me. Follow me. I'll take you somewhere safe, and I'll explain what's happening."

He doesn't have many other options, so after a tense few seconds of consideration he forces his head to rise and fall in something that could be interpreted as a nod.

"I'll keep you safe." She whispers the words into his ear. "Just stay in that form until I say it's all right to Change again, and I promise, I'll keep you safe."

XXX

Feuilly pauses, not certain where to let his memory go now. How much of his life does he offer to this stray? How much of the pain and fear of those first weeks does he acquiesce to, and how much does he gloss over?

"He did."

"Hm?" Feuilly raises his head in order to meet Grantaire's eyes. "What was that?"

"Monet kept his word. At least as well as anyone can keep anyone safe around Enjolras' pack." Grantaire pauses, hesitates. "Wait… no. Monet wasn't part of Enjolras' pack, was he? Not if his mother was the beta. Not unless Courfeyrac and Combeferre have aged very well. And not unless Armand was very confused yesterday."

"If that was all supposed to make sense to me, it doesn't." Taking a moment to sort through the quick litany, Feuilly sighs. "Actually, on second thought, most of it does. Including Armand probably telling you that our pack hasn't had any pups, which is true and absolutely none of his business. I swear, that alpha watches Enjolras like a hawk watches a rabbit."

Grantaire's face takes on a worried, distracted look, his hands balling into fists on the table.

He's being protective of Enjolras. This stray, the most submissive wolf anyone in the pack has ever met, is being protective of Enjolras. A bemused smile on his face, Feuilly shakes his head. "Armand's also one of Enjolras' biggest supporters in the area, so don't get too worked up about it. He's just… eccentric."

"So how did the two of you come to be in Enjolras' pack, then?" Grantaire tilts his head to the side, meeting Feuilly's gaze evenly for a moment before a look of panic slides across his face and he drops his gaze down to his plate. "Oh… if you don't want to say, if it's that Monet's pack didn't take the _human_ thing very well…"

"No." The smile on Feuilly's face is slightly bitter now, but he doesn't try to change it as he decides where to pick up the thread of the memory. "No, they didn't take it very well."

XXX

Monet manages to keep Feuilly's status as human-born a secret from the pack for an entire week. It's a week during which he learns to Change properly, learns the words that he needs to understand these strange creatures, and starts to get used to his new senses and the deficits in some of his old ones. It's a week during which he learns to walk properly in wolf form, to fight properly, and comes to understand both the feeling that assaults him when he meets other wolves and the reason behind it.

He's not sure that makes him _like_ it any more, and finding out that he's somewhere on the lower half of magical power doesn't make him too much happier with the situation, but any knowledge is better than confusion.

Except, of course, the breaking of the knowledge that he's human-born to the rest of the pack.

The pack corners them in Monet's room. All six of the adults are present, though it's the alpha and beta who come nearest to them.

"Why?" It's Monet's mother who makes the accusation, the female wolf growling low in his throat as he corners them both. "Why would you do this to me? You know how our pack feels about humans. You know how _all_ packs feel about humans!"

"He was scared. He was submissive." Monet keeps trying to stand in front of Feuilly, to protect him, but he won't allow it.

If there's going to be fighting, he's going to fight at Monet's side. He might not quite have the hang of Changing or using his wolf body, but he's had plenty of practice defending himself in human form. "Your daughter did nothing wrong. _I've_ done nothing wrong."

"You're a _monster_." It's the pack's alpha who spits out the word, and Feuilly reels back as the female bears down on him with his magic. "You're a monster that should never have been allowed into our home, into our pack. You should have been put down as soon as he found you, and we're going to correct the situation immediately."

He might have died then. The alpha intended to kill him, to keep him still and Monet still until the rest of the pack had done their job, but Feuilly had other plans.

He was new to the pack. He was young, still young enough to become a stray if he wished. The alpha was abusing his power. Those are all the reasons Monet will babble to him later, as they run, about why he was able to sever the pack-bond and save himself.

He's not sure which is right, or if it was simply his determination not to die, not to let this bastard kill him quietly, but the pack-bond snaps in two, and he can feel blood start to slide from his own nose as he watches it slide down the alpha's face.

"_Monster._" The word is a hiss, a low, angry growl from the half-dozen adult wolves gathered around them, and he knows that he can't wait for them to recover.

He needs to run.

He needs to survive.

It's the second time in a week that he goes through a window rather than a door, and the sting of glass cutting into his flesh is far too familiar, but he's quite certain that it beats the rending of wolf teeth.

He doesn't realize until he's halfway down the street that Monet's following him.

XXX

"He left his pack for you." Grantaire's voice is awed. "That's quite the vote of confidence."

"Not for me." Feuilly shakes his head, smiling for the first time in a while. "He left because it was wrong. He left because he couldn't live with what they tried to do. I… was just the catalyst that let him know that the world needed to change."

For a moment Grantaire's quiet, considering. When he finally speaks, it's not the question that Feuilly was expecting, the name that he had been waiting to hear nowhere to be found. "How long did the two of you go without a pack?"

XXX

Enjolras found them ten days later.

He was looking for them. Feuilly's certain of that, though he's never asked Enjolras to confirm it. Why else would Enjolras be in another pack's territory, though, especially mere months after he'd changed everything in Paris by redrawing the pack lines?

Monet was familiar with Enjolras, but only vaguely, by reputation, as a terrifying force threatening to tear their world apart.

Feuilly would know those blue eyes anywhere, even surrounded by the beautiful golden fur of Enjolras' wolf form.

Monet tries to protect Feuilly, once again. It's something Monet's been doing every time they've run into other wolves, and Feuilly hopes that eventually it's going to change, especially if he keeps slapping Monet's arm down every time he tries it.

Enjolras approaches them slowly, with deliberation obvious in every step. He settles down a half-dozen steps in front of them, staring gravely at first Feuilly and then Monet. The alley where he's found them is empty, the night around them still and quiet.

"What do you want with us?" Monet's voice shakes, and her head drops down, her shoulders hunching in submissive defiance. "We aren't in your territory. We're not your problem."

Shifting to human form in the space of a few seconds, rising gracefully to his full height, Enjolras continues to shift his focus from one of them to the other. "I heard about you two. A human-born and the wolf who saved his life."

Feuilly growls, low in his throat, shifting his weight so that he's ready to fight. He may not be able to look at Enjolras properly, the part of him that the wolf's invaded telling him that this man—woman—_person_ is _alpha_ in no uncertain terms, but he won't let anyone hurt him or Monet without a fight.

Especially not some bastard who plays at being human, who talks with humans about equality and revolution when he's really some kind of dominant werewolf monster. Does he want the humans to slaughter each other so that it's easier for his people? Is that why he's encouraging them toward rebellion and revolt?

"I wanted to offer you safety on my land." Enjolras' voice is quiet, his face serene. "I don't know if you'd be interested in joining my pack. There are currently six of us, but accepting two more wouldn't be a problem for me. If you are interested, you're welcome to talk with the others and ask permission. If you're not, that's fine. You're still welcome to make a den in our territory. I'll annex the land to you, if I have to in order for all our wolves to accept it, but you'll still have what protection I can offer you. Would that be acceptable?"

"Why?" He spits out the word before he thinks about it, adrenaline still coursing through his veins, still ready to fight.

Enjolras' eyes pierce right through him, hold him in place. "Because everyone deserves a chance at surviving, human or wolf or some beautiful combination of the two."

Monet relaxes, just slightly, and Feuilly finds himself doing the same.

Running a hand through his blond hair, Enjolras turns slightly away. "And, on a selfish note, because I remember you. I saw you two months ago. I liked the look in your eye then, and I like it now. I don't want to give anyone a chance to break it."

A brief, dark chuckle works its way out of Feuilly's throat. "You don't need to worry about that, alpha. I'm a lot harder to break than most people expect."

He's survived this ordeal with his sanity intact, and if this can't break him, nothing ever will.

Enjolras raises his shoulders in a brief, elegant shrug before falling forward onto four paws again, shaking his golden coat into position before fixing them each once more with his fire-blue eyes and turning away.

Feuilly and Monet don't talk about following him.

They just take each other's hand and do.

XXX

Grantaire is quiet, his eyes fixed on his hands.

Feuilly finishes the last of his meal and stretches. "And that's pretty much that. We met Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Musichetta, Bossuet, and Joly, and within the week we were added to his pack. A few months after that Monet finally explained to me what the whole mate-bond thing was, after we pretty much already had one. Otherwise… life's gone on. I work. Monet's getting an accounting degree. Enjolras… Enjolras has turned out to be everything that he appeared to be and more."

Raising his head, Grantaire smiles. "Thank you for telling me your story. It can't have been an easy one to tell, but it's an important one to listen to. When Enjolras says that our people's society is as broken as the human one, he's speaking truth."

Feuilly considers for a moment before giving a brief nod. "He tends not to speak unless he thinks he's speaking truth. Pack society… it's different from human society. It definitely has its problems. But it also has some beautiful things to it that I wouldn't have known otherwise. Monet wouldn't be who he is if he'd grown up human. It wouldn't have been possible. And I do love him the way he is."

"I'd say I'll drink to that, but apparently I'm not drinking today." Grantaire gives a brief salute with his water glass, a wide grin on his face. "To all the beautiful, bold members of your pack, may they never change."

Feuilly raises his own glass in return toast. "May they only change for the better."

Clearing away the remains of their meal, he directs Grantaire on how to do the sweeping and dusting. "When you're done, I'll give you some scraps I have, and you can show me what you've learned in your travels."

Feuilly's not sure he's ever seen a wolf smile quite so happily as Grantaire does at that moment, and it cements the decision that's been slowly building throughout the morning.

He hopes Enjolras doesn't ask him for a logical reason for accepting the stray, because he's not sure he has one, but he's also quite certain right now that he doesn't want to turn Grantaire away.


	16. Part Fifteen: Finding a Place

_Part Fifteen: Finding a Place_

Feuilly and the stray are home when Enjolras arrives, bringing a gust of frigid wind and darkness in with him from outside.

Feuilly is _with_ the stray when he comes home, the two of them concentrating fiercely on something in Feuilly's room, and Enjolras finds himself pausing in surprise. He had expected Feuilly to tolerate the stray's presence, since keeping him away from the university has become important, but he hadn't really expected Feuilly to like the stray well enough to spend time with him once the day was done.

Feuilly doesn't acknowledge his prodding at their pack-bond, and Enjolras sighs. Taking a moment to leave his things in his room, he climbs the stairs and knocks politely at Feuilly's door.

It opens a moment later, and Enjolras greets his iota with a raised eyebrow.

"We're comparing art styles." Feuilly sounds half-defensive, half-exasperated. "I'm enjoying myself. Since you just got home I thought you might want to take a few minutes to settle in before interrogating him."

"I'm not going to be interrogating him." Enjolras glances over Feuilly's shoulder to see Grantaire sitting on the floor, his head bowed submissively, a scrap of paper in front of him and a thin brush with black paint on the tip in his hand. "I'm just going to be talking with him about what happened yesterday. And it can wait until later, if you're otherwise engaged. What would the two of you like?"

Grantaire's gaze slides between Enjolras and Feuilly, his eyes wide, his mouth opening and then closing again without any sound emerging.

Sighing, Feuilly returns to Grantaire's side and pulls the brush from his hand. "Go with him. We both know it's what you want to do."

"I want to do this, too." Grantaire's protest is spoken to Feuilly's knee. "I haven't ever done this with another wolf. I really have thoroughly enjoyed spending the day with you, Feuilly."

"And we'll do it another time." Feuilly stands again, a smile turning the corners of his mouth up. "He's all yours, Enjolras, returned safe and sound and unharassed by other wolves just as you requested."

"Thank you, Feuilly." Enjolras returns Feuilly's smile before turning his full attention on Grantaire. "I'm glad to see you awake and sober. I'll be in my room. Join me there when you're ready to discuss what happened yesterday."

Grantaire nods, wiping his hands on his shirt as he stands, and follows Enjolras without another word.

It's a silence that's maintained until they're in his room, Grantaire a quiet, submissive shadow, and Enjolras tries not to let it bother him. Most of his wolves would be nervous having to talk to him about an event where they acted… less than ideally. It must be even harder for Grantaire.

He's going to sit at his desk, but there isn't a second chair and he doesn't want to force Grantaire to stand for this conversation while he sits. He wants Grantaire more at his ease, since it will give the other man a better chance of remembering what was said. Veering over to his bed, he perches on the edge and gestures for Grantaire to sit in the chair.

Grantaire does, his head still held low, making himself as small and submissive as possible.

Sighing, Enjolras tilts his head to the side. "You don't have to look like that. I'm not angry. I just want to know what happened, and discuss which aspects of your behavior could be improved on."

"I know you won't do anything terrible." Grantaire brings his gaze up, just for a moment. "Or at least, not to me. Not right now. I don't think I did anything awful enough to warrant it. I just… it's so nice, Enjolras, being able to feel like a proper wolf. It's so nice to be able to submit to someone that I think is worthy of it."

Enjolras considers for a moment. "I always try to have my wolves treat me as an equal—as much of an equal as they can, at least. I won't force you to, of course. Just… I may be alpha, but I value your opinion. I value any input you can give me. Understood?"

Grantaire raises his head again, and the smile on his face is beautiful and open. His voice is a quiet whisper. "Yes. It's part of why I'll do this."

"All right." He's still not sure he likes it. He still infinitely prefers the way that Combeferre and Courfeyrac will submit to him, small little signs rather than this blatant fawning, but if it's what Grantaire wishes to do, so be it. "Tell me what happened yesterday. You told me that Armand, Geroux, and Paquet talked to you."

"They did." Grantaire straightens slightly as he speaks. "Um… Armand talked to me first."

There's a long pause, during which Grantaire studies his hands in his lap. Enjolras isn't certain whether the stray wants him to speak or not, but after a half a minute he decides that venturing a question is probably the best way to move the conversation forward. "What did he want to talk to you about?"

"You." Grantaire shrugs. "I'm trying to think of how to phrase it so that you'll understand. I wasn't very drunk when I talked with him, so don't think that has much to do with what I'm telling you. He told me the story of when you first came to the university. He said… a lot of strange things about you, that you're... missing things."

"Missing things?" Enjolras tilts his head again. He's known Armand keeps a sharp eye on him, but the man's never been anything but polite since their first meeting, siding with him most times even with his more unpopular ideas. "Did he tell you what he meant?"

"He said that you didn't have a proper dominance drive." Grantaire lifts his head just slightly, smiling. "Which may be true, since you're the only alpha I've ever known who's told me to keep my head up and stop acting so submissive. And he said that you don't have a protective instinct, that you'd let your wolves get hurt if you thought it needed to happen. And he said…" Grantaire reddens, just slightly. "He said that you don't have a desire to mate, and that you suppress it in the rest of the pack."

Enjolras tilts his head back, considering. He answers the unspoken question in Grantaire's voice, because it's something he's had to answer before and it doesn't take much of his attention. "I've never had a desire to form a mate-bond with anyone, even just for the season. So far as the rest of the pack goes… the consensus has been that having pups at this point would be problematic. I don't want half of the pack out of commission for two months, at the least. I don't think it would be fair, having children given… what we're doing. So I repress those instincts during fall, and life continues as it normally does. He really thinks I don't have protective or dominance instincts?"

Grantaire stares at him for a moment before nodding, his mind clearly not keeping up with the conversation change. "He does. He seemed… happy about it."

Frowning, Enjolras considers. It feels… wrong, to have someone who saw so deeply into his mind and soul say things such as that about him. He supposes he's different from other alphas in some respects. He can't take pleasure in others submitting completely to him just because of his magic. It feels… false, to have another follow him without regard to their own ideas and ideals. It's not the type of loyalty or obedience that he wants. As for the protectiveness… his wolves can take care of themselves. He ensures that, and he will do everything in his power to help them if they need it, but often the best thing he can do for them is stand aside and trust them.

"He's…" Grantaire hesitates, clearly choosing his words carefully. "There's something… wrong with him, Enjolras. There's something wrong in the way that he talks about you. He doesn't see you as another alpha. He sees you as… something else. Something… higher. And he said that if you ever became like the rest of us, he'd have to find a way to kill you."

Enjolras stills, allowing Grantaire's words to repeat in his mind, thinking through all the times he's met Armand. The first time will always be sharpest, because it was the time that they saw each other most plainly, their magic tangled together, his thoughts burning through Armand's and tearing away that which the man loved most.

Armand had left him no choice. He needs to understand the humans and their laws if he's to change anything. He needs the education that Armand was trying to keep from him.

It's still one of the most unpleasant things he's ever done in his life, tearing his way through the heart and soul of another, finding and ripping the pack-bonds that Armand had formed his identity around away from the man. It's one of the few times he's wielded his power at full capacity, nothing held back, instinct and need guiding his moves rather than intellect.

Armand is a man of intellect. He's a man who loves learning. He's a man who cares for his pack, who is deeply attached to the people who have bound their souls to his own. He's a man who reminds Enjolras of Combeferre in many ways, an older, harsher Combeferre, and perhaps that's why he's simply accepted Armand's allegiance to him without much question. That may have been a mistake.

At the same time, thinking of Armand threatening to kill him is… well. It's not something that fits in easily with what he knows of the man. "You're certain you understood him properly?"

"Definitely." Grantaire watches him, nervous, wary, but there is an earnesty and sincerity in the way he speaks that makes Enjolras trust him. "I wouldn't mistake a threat against you. He definitely said that if you became like the rest of us, he'd have to find a way to kill you."

"Well." He's used to having other alphas threaten him. If he counted all the times Badeau has snarled and snapped at him, he'd be here all week. But for Armand to give a threat like that to a wolf who's considering joining Enjolras' pack, when he knows that Enjolras will almost certainly hear of it… "No matter, at least not for now. I don't intend on changing who I am anytime in the near future."

Grantaire smiles. "You're perfect. You don't have anything you need to change."

Raising one eyebrow, Enjolras shakes his head. "Nobody is perfect. I have my flaws, Grantaire. I make mistakes. But it sounds like Armand is talking about me changing who I am, fundamentally, and that isn't something that I can see happening. I'll remember what you said, though. Did you tell Armand anything about the pack?"

"Um…" Grantaire frowns. "I told him about me. He asked what was wrong with me… well, no, not him, not at first. He asked what drew you to me, why you were considering letting me join the pack. I told him that I was a submissive who didn't submit properly, and that you were willing to give me a try anyway."

"That's it? That was the whole of the discussion?"

Grantaire nods. "It wasn't bad, right? I know better than to talk about the pack in detail with other alphas, but I thought it would be all right to tell about me. Especially since they would have noticed pretty quick."

"You're free to tell or not tell your own quirks as you will." Enjolras lets out a slow breath. "And I'm fairly certain the others' unique abilities and attributes have already been discovered. I appreciate your attempts at being discreet, though. It will be a useful habit to cultivate if you intend to stay with us and help with our cause."

"I do." Grantaire stares straight at him, eyes wide, expression determined. "I want to stay with you. I want to help."

"All right." Enjolras smiles, the expression somewhat bemused as he studies the stray. "What did you and Geroux talk about, then?"

"The same things, mainly." Grantaire colors, just slightly, and turns away. "She wanted to know why I wanted to join your pack, and she wanted to make sure that I wouldn't destabilize it. Which I don't think I would. You wouldn't consider letting me join if I was going to cause real trouble for you, would you?"

"You won't destabilize the pack." Shaking his head, Enjolras truly smiles at the stray. "The others like you. They're fond of you. Your quirk annoys their wolves, sometimes, but you accept their corrections. Coupled with the fact that we all believe every wolf should have a voice, and the fact that many of them seem to take… a strange sort of joy in being a bit different from most other packs, I don't think you're going to be a great problem for us."

"You say that as though I've already asked." Grantaire's head is down again, his hands clutching at his knees. "You say that as though I've already been accepted."

Enjolras knows the question that's coming. Perhaps it's time for it, even. But he needs to finish his questions first. "Did Geroux say anything else?"

Grantaire wilts, just slightly, and shakes his head. "Nothing of note. And I… don't remember much of my conversation with Paquet. I think… he threatened me, but I also think he tried to reassure me, so…"

"If you can't remember, there's nothing for it. Though the drinking that led to your difficulty remembering is something I wish to talk with you about." Enjolras had expected that Grantaire's memory of Paquet and what followed would be blurred at best. He had spoken personally with Paquet, and hopefully anything that Grantaire may have done or said will be overshadowed in Paquet's mind by an alpha to alpha conversation.

"I can stop." Grantaire risks a quick glance up at him, expression earnest. "If you wanted it, I'm certain I could stop. I only had a single glass of wine so far today, to help with a headache that I had when we came home. But it isn't a problem, anyway. I don't do anything terribly bad when I'm drunk. I'm not a danger. I tend to just talk, though I know better than to talk about Pack business."

"It will be different now, Grantaire. If we accept you, if you're a part of my pack, then your actions will reflect on me. You will have confidential information—information that could hurt the humans we're working with, that could hurt the pack if it came to the wrong ears." Enjolras watches the stray carefully as he talks, watches the cheerful bravado that had accompanied Grantaire's claims give way to uncertainty and fear. He drops his voice to an even quieter, softer tone, trying to make his words truthful but not cruel. "And you did act irregularly. You submitted to me. You attempted to nuzzle against me in public, in daylight, among humans. That kind of behavior can't be tolerated."

"It won't happen again." There's a stricken, terrified look on Grantaire's face as he whispers his answer to his hands. "I didn't… I've never had an alpha I would submit to before. But I'll be prepared next time. I'll make sure that it doesn't happen again. You can trust me."

"I would like to, Grantaire." He wants to. It's clear the man means the words, means the promise not to drink, means the promise to be true to the pack. Allowing himself to relax, Enjolras smiles, deciding that he _will_ trust this male. "Now, I believe there was something you wanted to ask me."

Slowly, in hesitant increments, Grantaire raises his eyes to meet Enjolras' gaze. "You're certain? It's all right to ask it now, even though…?"

"Yes." Enjolras hopes he's predicted right what Grantaire wished to ask. This is likely going to be very awkward otherwise.

When Grantaire finally speaks, his voice is low and hesitant, though it gains strength and certainty as he continues. "You've been telling me to talk with the pack. You've been telling me to get to know them. You've been telling me to understand what you're fighting for."

They aren't the words of tradition, but they're proper words for between them. "Yes."

"I have. And I love your pack, Enjolras." Grantaire's eyes shine, an excitement that Enjolras hasn't seen in the stray before. "I love Jehan's kindness and creativity and even his poetry. I love Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta, for daring to choose each other and for how easily they've accepted me. I love Feuilly for being an artist and trusting me with his story. I love Bahorel for defending me. I love Courfeyrac, for giving me this opportunity. And I think I understand what you're fighting for, now."

"And?" Enjolras keeps himself from reaching toward the stray, physically or mentally.

"I still…" A low whine works its way out of Grantaire's throat. "I can't say that I grasp everything you're doing. I can't say I think it's all going to work out the way you think it is. You're trying to change everything. But I understand why. The way we treat each other is wrong. The way the humans treat us is wrong. The way the humans treat each other is wrong. And being with you, being with your pack… I can imagine something different, even if only in fleeting glances. I understand why you're doing what you're doing, and I want to help you."

They're words he's wanted Grantaire to say since the stray first started watching them. He can't help but smile, rising and moving to place his hand on Grantaire's shoulder. If it were his choice, his alone, he would wrap the stray in his arms and allow his power to bind him tight to the pack right now.

It isn't solely his choice, though, and he draws a breath and lets it out slowly. Reaching down, he tilts Grantaire's head up, though the male won't meet his gaze evenly. "And because of this?"

"I have seen your pack, Alpha." The words are the words of tradition, though they are half-strangled. "And I beg your leave to join it."

"I grant you leave to try, Grantaire." They're not the words of tradition, but they're the words that he can say. "When the pack gathers this evening, place your request before them. If they accept you, I gladly will."

Grantaire nods, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and hope, and reaches up to wrap his fingers tightly around Enjolras' wrist.

XXX

Marius waits impatiently in the garden.

Cosette had brought him food early in the morning, just after dawn, but she had been quick, hurried, and she left before they'd exchanged a half-dozen words. All she had really told him was to be still and avoid detection.

He waits in wolf form, breakfast having given him the strength he needed to change and his fur being warmer than any human clothing.

It's harder to be patient in wolf form, though, and he's fairly certain he's prowled every inch of the garden by the time evening comes. He's managed to be careful to avoid walking directly in front of the windows or other places where the male human might notice, at least.

He also managed to be still and silent, another clump of brown vegetation amidst the snow, when the male human searched the garden earlier in the afternoon. It helped that snow had fallen throughout the morning, painting the entire garden in a fresh coat of fluffy white and eliminating any tracks that led to his hiding spot.

Eventually, though, evening comes. The sky darkens into true night, the stars and the Lady hidden by a cover of thick clouds, and even his sharp eyes have difficulty making out much in the gloom.

He can smell when Cosette comes out to see him, though. Her scent is one that he is very sharply cued to, and he bounds out of his hiding place and towards the woman.

She doesn't notice him until his teeth pull gently on her sleeve, urging her to set the bowl of food that he can also smell down so that he can eat.

"Marius?" She hesitates, her fingers reaching down and groping blindly at his head. "That is you, correct?"

He takes her hand in his teeth and very gently nods. He knows better than to push himself Changing too often tonight. Once he's had his meal, then he can Change and talk with her.

Cosette strokes the fur on his head as he eats, kneeling next to him. When he's done he licks her hand, gently, before bounding back to where he left his clothes.

Changing and dressing as quickly as he can, trying to ignore the cold, he makes his way back to Cosette's side.

"Marius?" Cosette responds to the sound of his steps in the snow, reaching a hand in his general direction.

"Here." He slips his hand into hers, thrilled at the feel of her fingers against his skin. "I've been waiting for you."

"It's been hard keeping Papa from tearing the garden apart. I had to wait for him to go out for a few minutes before coming to see you." Cosette leans closer to him, her fingers returning his grip with equal verve. "It's so dark out tonight! Dark and cold, Marius, and I hate thinking of you out here alone."

"I'm not alone." He uses his free hand to stroke her cheek, a gentle touch that she leans into. A thrill goes through his gut, and he finds himself grinning widely as joy sweeps through his heart and soul, joy such as he hasn't felt since before his father died. "I have you."

"Marius…" His name is a soft gasp as she pulls back from him, and the fear-scent is suddenly sharp around them.

He doesn't understand what happened, and a whimper slips from his throat before he can stop it. "Cosette? Did I do something wrong?"

Had he acted improperly? Did he break some unknown human taboo? Did he—

"Did you… did you feel that?" Cosette's hand trembles in his, but she hasn't pulled her fingers away.

"No. I don't know." He hesitates, trying to remember anything strange that's occurred over the last minute. "What should I be trying to feel?"

"I don't… I can't…" Cosette hesitates for another few seconds before resting her head against his shoulder again. "I don't have words to describe it, Marius. I suppose… ah, it was likely nothing, anyway."

"All right." He's still confused, but at least the fear scent has faded again from around Cosette. He doesn't like it when she's frightened. It makes his hackles want to rise, brings a growl to his throat. Nothing should frighten Cosette, not when he's with her. Squeezing her hand, he tries rubbing his chin against Cosette's head, as he would with a less-dominant wolf to offer comfort.

She giggles, a sound of breathless mirth, and reaches up to scratch behind his ear. "You're such a strange contradiction, Marius. The wolf who nods and the man who nuzzles. I find it very thrilling."

"I'm glad." Since she apparently likes it, he rubs his head against her again. He likes the feel of her fingers in his hair, and he tilts his head so that she can reach the best spots more easily.

Cosette's fingers slow, come to a standstill wrapped in his hair. "And though I'm quite flattered that you consider me equally as important as not freezing or starving to death, I would feel rather better if I knew that you had a safe place to go and a source of food other than what I can scavenge for you."

"I catch things on occasion." Very occasionally, his hunting skills having been blunted by too long in a well-established city pack, but it has been an occasional source of protein. "And every once in a while I'm able to do work as a tutor or translator for a bit of coin. I did have a small apartment, but the pack whose territory it was in found me and… strongly disapproved of my presence."

"Is there nowhere in Paris that the pack hasn't claimed?"

"No." Marius can't keep the surprise out of his voice as he answers the question. "Packs tend to have large territories, to give more hunting ground, to give more safety, to give more of a chance of finding dens, to give more places for pups to be taught and trained."

"But it's the city! There are dens everywhere." Cosette pauses. "If by dens we mean houses."

"It's… it's a matter of instinct and pride, Cosette." Marius hesitates, trying, once more, to find words to describe concepts that he's never questioned. "Many of our instincts have to be suppressed when humans are around. So we cling very tightly to those that are left to us. Wolves need space. Having nine packs in Paris is quite enough for most of us."

"I think… there's something that I'm not understanding quite right." Cosette pulls back from him slightly, frowning. "When you were talking about the pack before, you said that all wolves are pack and that the alpha binds all the wolves together. So how are there nine packs?"

"All wolves are Pack, but we're certainly not all part of the same pack." Marius bites at his bottom lip to keep from laughing. He suspects Cosette would pull away from him if he laughed, and he doesn't want that. "It's a matter of capitalization."

"Ah." A different sort of frown, slightly pouting, takes the place of the confused one. "You do realize that capitalization isn't audible, Marius?"

"I do now." He grins, and another burst of joy makes coherent thought possible. He wishes it were possible for Cosette to feel it. He wishes that Cosette were a wolf, that he could choose her, that he could simply stay with her.

Except Cosette wouldn't be Cosette if she were a wolf. She wouldn't look the same. She wouldn't have such delightfully curious questions about his world.

She wouldn't want to talk with him.

He wouldn't be able to think of her as _she_.

"Oh…" Cosette presses her free hand to her chest, a radiant smile followed by a look of utter puzzlement flowing over her face. Shaking her head, she offers him a slight smile before straightening. She moves so that she's standing in front of him, looking up into his eyes, though she doesn't release his hand. "So there are nine small packs in Paris with alphas for each pack? Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"And your grandfather is alpha of one, so him and his territory aren't an option." Cosette bites at her lip. "How many of the other packs have you approached?"

"I've talked with three." He lowers his head, the memories of those awkward conversations hot and painful in his chest. "None of them wanted me. I've been driven away from the territory of three others when they found me on their land without permission."

"So there are two other packs that you haven't approached." Cosette bites at her bottom lip. "Do you think that one of them might accept you?"

Marius stays silent. He doesn't really want to think about approaching his people right now. Not while he's in the midst of doing something that all of them would look on with even more horror than what his father did. At least his father only fought for and followed a human; Marius has willingly, willfully told one all of their secrets.

"I'm sorry." Cosette's fingers are gentle on his cheek. "I'm sorry that you're so alone, Marius. It must be terribly lonely, especially if your people are used to reading each other's minds."

"Emotions." He makes the correction gently, smiling as he leans into her touch. "Not minds, Cosette. Not unless we're in a Pack children's story."

"Emotions. Minds. Souls. Call it what you will, it sounds amazing." Her hand pauses, presses hard against his cheek. "And I'm certain that losing that is incredibly hard."

"I don't want to think on it. I want to talk with you, and see you happy. I want to see your joy at discovering my world. I want…" He doesn't know how to articulate what he wants. But he isn't lonely, not standing here with Cosette, and despite the snow it's a warm night, so he isn't cold. Life could be much worse.

"Is there nowhere else that you could go?" Cosette's hand reaches up, teases and fondles at the hair around his ears. "There's nowhere in Paris that the packs haven't claimed?"

"The university is neutral ground." He tilts his head, his eyes closing in contentment as her fingers explore. "It's an old concept, one that hasn't been used very often. It's to keep fighting between evenly-matched packs from getting out of hand. It's something the newest alpha insisted on having at the university, so that any wolf who wants to can attend the school. All wolves are supposed to be welcome on neutral ground. No one pack can claim ownership, and it's very bad form to injure another wolf on neutral ground. That doesn't always stop wolves from fighting, and it wouldn't necessarily guarantee my safety since I have no pack to bring a grievance against another pack if I was badly injured."

"But it might be an option. You might be able to find lodging near the university." Cosette's tone is hopeful.

Opening his eyes again, Marius shrugs. "I could look, I suppose."

"Or you could approach the other packs. Perhaps one of them would be willing to accept you."

They wouldn't. Not if he wants to keep coming here, to keep seeing and talking with her, and he very much does. He doesn't want to crush that hope in her eyes, though. "If you want me to look for proper lodgings again, I will."

"I would, Marius." Her hand slides down, cups his cheek. "I want you to have a proper place to stay, and a change of clothes. I want you to eat properly, so you can Change like the magnificent creature that you are. And I want you to start attending Church on Sundays, so that you can be introduced to my father and start courting me properly."

"I can't—" He's going to protest the absurdity of a Pack member attending church when the rest of her sentence registers. "You want me to court you?"

"Yes." Cosette's cheeks are flushed again, stronger than he's ever seen them, but her eyes are bright and direct as they stare into his. "I considered having you simply stay as a wolf and asking Papa if I could keep you as a pet, but that feels too… dishonest. So I would like you to meet us properly, like a human would meet me, and then, if you wish it, I would very much like for you to court me."

"I'm a werewolf, Cosette. I'm something… completely different than what you are."

"No." Both her hands cup his cheeks, now, and her eyes are bright and shining as they gaze into his. "You aren't. You're magic, and you're wonderful, but you're also… talking with you these last days, you aren't any more alien than… than someone from another country. You have strange words, and strange customs, but I can tell that we're still the same, at heart."

He doesn't know what to say.

He doesn't know what he wants.

"Of course…" Her hands drop away, and she blushes more, something he hadn't thought was possible. Her eyes also fall, study the snow rather than meeting his as her shoulders hunch. "If you don't wish to, that's fine. I must seem plain and silly compared to a female wolf. I didn't mean to imply that you _had_ to court me. You could simply introduce yourself properly to my father, and maybe we could talk sometime when there isn't snow underfoot and we aren't cold and—"

"I would very much like to court you." His voice stops her words, and he returns her smile with a wide grin of his own. "Though I may not do a very good job at it. I've never courted a human before. I've only read about it in books. And I will admit that the idea of attending a human church is… odd."

"I will probably be very bad at being courted. I've only read about it, as well." Cosette's giddy smile seems to reach right through to his heart, to his soul, fanning his own joy higher. "And I simply mentioned the church because we go every Sunday. Papa is actually quite religious. Would it be terrible to ask you to attend, when they've done such awful things to your people in the past?"

"I would be willing to try. For you, I would be willing to try anything." He wants to pull her to him, to wrap his arms around her and hold her tight to him. He wants to pounce on her, to bear her to the ground and lick her cheek and bite her ear and reassure her that she is his and he is hers and he will protect her.

That probably wouldn't help to reinforce her idea that they are the same at heart, though, so he contents himself with holding both her hands tightly and grinning.

He's thus completely unprepared when she throws herself at him, wrapping her arms around him and pressing her lips against his neck. She doesn't bite. There's no challenge in the move, and he finds himself blinking in confusion at her face again a moment later when she pulls away.

"I'm sorry." She laughs, a breathless, happy sound. "I don't know what got into me, Marius. I just… I'm so happy that you'll consider it. I'm so happy to be here with you. And I can't wait to introduce you to Papa. But first, we need you to be properly taken care of."

"I will go looking tomorrow." He strokes her hair as he says the words. "No matter what it takes, if it's to make you happy, I will find a way."

"Thank you." Cosette hesitates, her hands resting against his coat. "And you won't mind pretending to be human? Because you'll have to pretend, if we aren't going to tell Papa your secret."

"I've been pretending to be entirely human for nine months now. My people spend most of our lives pretending to be human." Marius' fingers pause. "Pretending to be human in order to be with you will be a much more pleasant experience, I think."

"And it won't be too terrible having to attend our church? You said… you have gods of your own? It won't make you feel too…"

Marius chuckles, low in his throat, and shakes his head. "The White Lady owns my soul, and the Black Night will come for me one day no matter what I do. I see no reason they should begrudge me spending some time with your human god."

"You speak of them as though you know them. As though they're real." Cosette glances away, suddenly uneasy. "I mean, not to say that they necessarily aren't, since you are a werewolf…"

"I see the evidence of the White Lady's power in the sky every night. I feel her inside my body every time I Change. She calls my Change out every full moon whether I will it or no. Of course I think she's real."

"Oh." Cosette tilts her head, expression pensive. "Would you mind… telling me about them? About your gods?"

"If you want." He hesitates, trying to sort through what information Cosette might be interested in. "The White Lady and the Black Night are our gods. The White Lady is the god of the moon. He's the one who chose our people, who gave us our abilitites, who watches over us. He gave us our magic in return for our using it to protect ourselves and each other. That's why dominant wolves are supposed to protect submissive ones; that's why submissive ones are supposed to trust and follow dominant ones. He's the god of Change, of pack, of birth. He's the one we ask for protection, when we ask a god for anything."

"And the Black Night?"

"Ah… we try not to say his name often. He's the Lady's mate, the one who follows and completes him, the one who watches him when he's sleeping. He is the god of death. He is the lord of loneliness, the master of darkness, and the Lady is the only thing that keeps him from being too terrible and sad to contemplate. He is… not one that you call upon or invite lightly into anything." Marius shivers, reaching out and pulling Cosette closer to him without thinking.

She comes without resistance, her body warm against his. "It's so strange to hear you talk of gods like this, Marius. Strange and… frightening, in a way, because if you're real, might they not also be real?" Cosette pauses, her breath warm against his neck. "And perhaps they are. If God can be a man and a god at the same time, a father and a son, why should he not be a man and a woman, a wolf and a man? I don't know, Marius. I don't know if I'm speaking blasphemy or truth. I don't know how to think about this. It's frightening."

"Don't think on it if it frightens you." Marius tilts her chin up, rubs his cheek against hers. "Other than forcing me to Change once a month, the Lady seems not to bother much with her people. There are tales of her and her mate walking among us, but they are old tales, tales that start with long, long ago and have no names in them that are recognizable. The Pack has been left to its own devices, to live or die as we will. Even when the humans slaughtered us in droves, the Lady did nothing to save us."

"Let's talk of easier things again." Cosette shivers, once, and pulls away from him. "Let's talk about the pack you grew up with. Tell me about when you were younger. Tell me about learning about humans. Tell me anything about you, and let's leave talk of gods and death for other days."

"All right." Marius trails his fingers across her cheek. "If you'll tell me about your childhood."

Cosette nods, her smile returning.

They talk for what seems like hours. He tells her of learning how to control his Changes, of playing with other pups, of his grandfather, of the tutors that were hired to teach the pups, of the difficulty of not having proper age-mates to be with since his mother had changed packs after his birth, the other pups all younger or older than he is. He tells her of the other pups choosing to leave the pack, one after the other, and his own hesitancy, his own uncertainty, his eventual decision to simply stay with his grandfather and find a position within his birth-pack. He tells her of visiting his father, of how that simple visit broke his life apart and changed everything.

She tells him of growing up in the convent. She tells him of nightmares, shadow-memories of a time before, working, crying, hurting, sleeping in the cold. She tells him of her Papa, a man she loves as a father though she isn't sure of his exact blood-relation to her. She tells him of her decision to leave the convent, to see the world that had been so long hidden outside the walls.

They talk until they hear the garden door open, and she leaves him with a look and a squeeze of his hand that promises many more good nights to come.

As he settles down to sleep once more in his fur in the snow, he vows that he will find somewhere safe that he can stay, no matter how difficult a task it is.

Cosette would be worth any difficulty.


	17. Part Sixteen: The Vote

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the delay in posting this chapter. There's been a family emergency and I'm going to be out of town for a funeral, so the next chapter of this and "Dreamers" will likely be delayed. I apologize for this. I also likely won't get to answering reviews for a little bit because of this, but I am exceedingly grateful for each one and will definitely get to responding as soon as real life allows. Again, thank you all and I hope that everyone enjoys this chapter!

_Part Sixteen: The Vote_

"Combeferre."

Enjolras' voice takes Combeferre's attention away from the arteries that he's studying, bringing him abruptly back to the present and the pack. Turning in his chair so that he can see the door, Combeferre smiles at his alpha. "Yes?"

The smile fades as his mind automatically touches his pack-bond to Enjolras and finds it soft, purposefully quiescent. Enjolras is keeping his mind closed off, inviolate, something that he rarely does. What does slip through his control is a thrumming, hungry power, barely leashed, but even Combeferre's sense of that dims after a moment.

Enjolras walks over to the desk, every step deliberate, controlled. His voice is low when he finally speaks, for Combeferre's ears only. "He's going to ask to be pack."

Combeferre blinks. "What?"

"Grantaire's going to ask to be pack. Tonight, if I'm not mistaken." Enjolras lets out a slow breath. "I gave him permission to."

"But…" Combeferre forces himself to close his mouth, to sort his thoughts and dismay into words rather than simply staring at his alpha. "He hasn't talked with all of us. We had agreed to wait at least the week. He—"

"He asked. I…" Closing his eyes, Enjolras places one of his hands flat on the desk. If Combeferre didn't know Enjolras as deeply as he does, didn't know his actions and reactions so well, he might have missed the slight trembling of his fingers. "I granted him permission to ask. Enough of the pack has interacted with him now to give a fair discussion, and he needs the protection if he's going to be staying with us. The time when we could safely harbor strays without making them pack has passed. We've done too much, made too many enemies, made too much of a name for ourselves among our people."

"Then have him stay here. No one would attack our den. Anyone who wants to talk with him can talk with him here, or at the Musain. There's another place they would be idiots to attack. Though we'd have to control how large an alcohol allowance he has, if yesterday is any indication…" Combeferre trails off, his eyes moving from Enjolras' hand on his desk up his arm and pausing on his face.

Eventually Enjolras opens his eyes, loosens his grip on their pack-bond, and Combeferre draws in a short, sharp breath of his own.

"He's begging me, Combeferre." Enjolras' voice is quiet, strained, hungry, but not worried, not frightened, not unhappy. "He's taking all of my power that I allow, all that slips without my meaning it to, begging for _more_, reaching for _me_. He has been since he came here, but… it's worse now. It's so much worse now, and I could keep trimming it back, if you really want me to. I can keep shoving him away. I can give us a week, if it's needed, but…"

"But it would be hard on you." Combeferre places his hand over Enjolras', dredging up a smile. "You've already made your decision. You just need the rest of the pack to vote. I can't vote on this, though. I haven't spent enough time with him. I don't know him well enough."

"He's going to ask tonight." There's a fire and fierceness, a hunger and need in Enjolras' gaze that Combeferre has seen only six other times in his life. "I told him to wait until tonight. He's in his room right now."

Nodding, Combeferre stands and reluctantly pulls his hand away from Enjolras'. "Well, then. I had best go educate myself quite quickly."

XXX

Grantaire paces back and forth across his room, pausing at the window to adjust his clothes in his reflection before pacing again.

Enjolras said he could ask.

Enjolras said that he could ask _tonight_.

How should he ask?

He can't use the traditional words. He's going to have to change them. This isn't just a decision that Enjolras' making, and he has to make sure that he shows them that he's been paying attention, that he know what they are and how they think.

At least he thinks he does.

Hopes he does.

Maybe he shouldn't have asked Enjolras already.

What if the pack votes against him?

What if they tell him to leave?

He thinks that most of them like him. Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta have been sleeping with him, the female wolf including him in Musichetta's little cluster, nuzzling him against the female's two mates. He's fairly certain he didn't do anything too stupid when he was with Jehan. Bahorel defended him. Feuilly seemed to enjoy his company…

But what if he's wrong? What if they've just been tolerating him? It's only been a few days that they've actually been interacting with him, though for him it seems that he's known them for longer, the weeks that he watched them interacting with the humans without actually approaching them muddling things.

What if he asks and loses everything tonight?

A soft knock sounds at his door, and Grantaire jerks around to see Combeferre standing uneasily in the doorway. For a long moment he stares straight into Combeferre's brown eyes, trying to process why Enjolras' beta would be approaching him. Then Combeferre's mouth twitches, just slightly, the corners turning down, and Grantaire remembers that this is Enjolras' _beta_ and forces his eyes to the ground.

"Sorry." The words are a mumbled murmur to the floor. "I didn't mean to cause offense. It's just me."

"It's fine, Grantaire." Combeferre continues to stand in the doorway. "I know you didn't mean anything by it. My wolf is just… nervous at the moment. May I come in and speak with you?"

"Um… certainly." Grantaire gestures around the sparsely furnished room. "Would you prefer the desk or the bed?"

"The desk." Combeferre enters the room softly, on unshod feet. He's still in his waistcoat, but his cravat is gone and the cuffs of his sleeves are loose. "Please, sit as well. I'd like to talk with you."

Settling gingerly on the edge of his bed, keeping his shoulders and head down, Grantaire eyes Combeferre with his peripheral vision. The man seems… distracted, uncertain, his gaze traversing the room briefly before returning to his hands, clasped in front of him. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

Combeferre is quiet for several seconds. When he speaks, he keeps his eyes on his hands, not lifting his gaze to stare at Grantaire or challenge him. "What will you bring to our pack if we grant you acceptance?"

Swallowing hard, Grantaire finds himself curling up even further, making himself as submissive as he possibly can. "Myself, I suppose. A bit of coin that I have left. A strong back. Another set of hands to use as you see fit."

Combeferre's eyes rise, stare straight at Grantaire. "We don't use people. We ask things of them. We try very hard to ask the right people, so that our tasks will actually be completed."

"I could be the right person." Grantaire tries hard not to sound like he's begging. "Anything that this pack asks of me, I will do. For this pack, I would… I would burn the ocean. I would drown the desert. I would denounce the Lady and court the Black Night if only you'd allow me entrance to the pack. I want a _home_, Combeferre, and I can't imagine a home better than the one that I've seen here."

Combeferre meets his eyes evenly, head tilted just slightly to the side.

Once he realizes that he's staring at Combeferre directly, challenging the man again, Grantaire quickly drops his gaze. He hadn't meant to, but the possibility of being accepted or rejected by this pack burns in his heart too strongly for him to remember anything else when he's thinking of it.

"You're so different from any others that he's wanted." There's a soft, contemplative note to Combeferre's voice that hadn't been present before. "So different from even Jehan and Joly, from any other submissives I've seen. I… find it very difficult to understand you, Grantaire, and to understand why he reacts to you the way that he does."

"By he do you mean Enjolras?" Grantaire finds himself smiling, pleased with what he thinks Combeferre is saying. "Is Enjolras pleased with me? Does he want to accept me?"

"Enjolras is trying very hard to keep his opinions on the matter to himself, so that there isn't a danger of his swaying the vote." Combeferre frowns, his eyes closing for a moment and his body stilling. When he opens his eyes again, that frank curiosity is present once more. "What do you think of humans, Grantaire?"

"Some are nice enough." Grantaire shrugs. "They're similar to us in a lot of ways. Different in a lot of ways, too, but at least they don't get upset about my not submitting. And I like Feuilly. A lot. I think he's a very strong person, to have survived what he survived, and I'm really enjoying talking about artwork with him."

"And the monarchy? The government? The laws?" Combeferre's eyes narrow.

"I… don't know." Shrugging helplessly, Grantaire spreads his hands open. "I always thought the king was like a human alpha. They have one really big pack, and their alpha struggles are vicious, but so long as it didn't interfere with me… I never really questioned it. Listening to Feuilly, listening to Enjolras, listening to all of you… you have ideas about how to fix things. I don't know if they'll work. I know that it's dangerous. I don't care. To have a pack, I'll accept that danger. I'll accept that uncertainty."

Combeferre is quiet again, and Grantaire wonders if he said the right thing. Perhaps he should have lied. Perhaps he should have used his status as non-pack, his lack of any connection to Combeferre, to tell the male what he wants to hear.

That doesn't feel… right, though. He doesn't want any lies between him and this pack, not now, not later. There's already a fair chance they're disappointed in him. Trying to make himself seem more useful than he is and then failing would just be a good way to get himself ostracized from the pack.

"You're very focused on Enjolras." The question is spoken to his hair, and Grantaire remembers to duck his head again. "Explain."

"_Explain?_" Grantaire chokes on a laugh as he attempts to turn it to a cough. How is he supposed to explain it? What is he supposed to say? "He's… Combeferre, he's the most impressive alpha I've ever heard of. I _submit_ to him. I'm _right_ when I'm with him. He's beautiful. He's—"

"He's not interested in a mate." Combeferre's voice is ice cold.

"All right." Grantaire shrugs, blinking in confusion at the interruption. "That's fine."

Combeferre stares at him, head tilting slowly to the other side. "That's all? That's the entirety of your reaction?"

"Well… yes." Grantaire shifts, uncomfortable. "I didn't expect him to be interested in me like that. I just want to be a part of the pack, Combeferre. If he _was_ interested in me as a mate, I… I don't know what I'd do. Maybe die of happiness. But it would be enough for me if he's just _interested_ in me, if he just… if he just lets me be a part of this pack, a part of your lives."

"You'd be the eleventh member of our pack." There's consideration in Combeferre's voice, in the way his hand reaches up to rub at his left temple. "Enjolras is quite certain that he can handle that many wolves, but I don't know if he's thought ahead to if you wanted to bring a mate into the pack."

"Eleven…" Grantaire whispers the word, running through the wolves that he's met. Having to think of ranks theta and kappa had given him an idea of how large Enjolras' pack was, and he had known there were a _lot_ of wolves in this pack, but it's still an impressive number for one alpha to hold. "I would be fine with that. If I'm the last, if I don't have a mate, I don't care. I'll at least have a _pack_. Especially since this pack apparently doesn't believe in fall, I'm not sure it'll even make that much of a difference."

"We can't afford a fall. There's a difference." Combeferre appears distinctly uncomfortable, his back suddenly straight, his eyes elevated, announcing his dominance in a way that Enjolras' wolves rarely have. "And just because we don't indulge in fall doesn't make having a mate something to dismiss out of hand. If it's a drive you have, it can be a very worthwhile bond to form. And it makes it easier to draw strength from the pack, to protect ourselves when danger comes."

"I'm an old stray, Combeferre. I haven't found a mate yet. I don't expect one to magically appear now." Grantaire shrugs, dismissing the worry out of hand. "I don't even have a _pack_. I don't think you're realizing exactly how terrible a position that is, and how much more amazing it would be to _have_ one."

"No." Combeferre answers quietly, his eyes dropping again. "No, I don't. I've never been in that position."

"You've been with him for a long time, haven't you?" Grantaire asks the question tentatively, not wanting to upset Combeferre again.

"I have been." A smile, small but unmistakable, makes Combeferre look much less threatening and intimidating. "I was his first. He took me with him when he left our birth pack. We were fifteen, almost sixteen."

"That's young." Grantaire straightens without meaning to, surprise drawing his eyes and his head up. It's just slightly younger than Grantaire was when he left his birth pack, in the summer of his sixteenth year. "Why?"

"Because of who and what he is. He couldn't stay in that pack, not and be… him. His father was the alpha; my mother was the beta. They tried to give him as much leniency as they could, but once it became clear that he really intended to change everything…" The smile doesn't fade from Combeferre's face, though it does become sadder. "We took the money they had been setting aside for us and we left. They didn't want me to go with him. They didn't want to lose both of us, and they were afraid that he would get himself killed before summer even began. He had to help me sever the pack-bond, but he was there to claim me. It was… it was terrifying. It was amazing. I've never regretted it."

"If you've been with him so long, why did you and Courfeyrac…" Grantaire trails off, hunching down as small as he can make himself as Combeferre's smile disappears entirely, cold disdain taking its place.

"Finish your question, stray." Combeferre's voice is even, but the warmth that had been building throughout the rest of the conversation is suddenly gone.

"Why did you and Courfeyrac end up mates instead of you and Enjolras." Grantaire whispers the words, knowing that Combeferre will hear them anyway. "I'm sorry. You did start it, though, telling me not to think of Enjolras as a potential mate."

Combeferre's silent for a long time, and Grantaire finally risks a glance up at him. A brief smile flits across Combeferre's face and he shakes his head. "You're right. I did bring up the topic. It's just… a sore point for me, in a way. Not because I'm unhappy with Courfeyrac or because I was rejected by Enjolras or anything like that, but because everyone keeps expecting that to be my story. People keep telling _Enjolras_ that this must be my story, and it makes him act strangely."

"Not Courfeyrac?" Grantaire allows a slight smile to grace his face.

"Not Courfeyrac. He is… absolutely amazing." Combeferre's own smile grows. "He accepts that Enjolras means a great deal to me without any question, without any hesitation, without any jealousy. I was Enjolras' first wolf, and he will always be my alpha. But that doesn't mean I _settled_ for Courfeyrac. If Enjolras were interested in me as a mate, he had almost three years in which to ask me before Courfeyrac and I became mates. Would I have accepted? I don't know. But I'm happy with my bond with Enjolras and I'm happy with my bond with Courfeyrac, and I don't want to change either."

"Then don't." Grantaire relaxes again, taking in the way that Combeferre's body has stilled, the way his eyes shine as he speaks of his mate and his alpha. He clearly cares deeply about both wolves, and it's a beautiful thing to see. "Be happy. Your pack deserves to be happy."

"All men deserve to be happy—all wolves, all humans. We will be happy when we've achieved our goals, winning the humans' freedom, winning ours alongside it." Combeferre leans forward, his hands clasped in front of him, his eyes fixed on Grantaire's face. "And yes, we will be happy in the interim, because our pack is fantastic, but if you are to be a member of this pack I will expect you to be useful. I will expect you to help him—to help us. If you don't…"

"I'll do whatever you ask me to. I'll do whatever the pack needs. And if I fail…" Grantaire turns his head to the side, exposing his neck, closing his eyes, making himself vulnerable to Combeferre in a way that he rarely has with any other alpha-level wolf. There are too few that he has been able to trust, especially these last two years.

Combeferre's fingers are chilly against his neck, a feather-light touch as Combeferre uses his other hand on the back of Grantaire's skull to tilt his head forward. Combeferre's chin rests in Grantaire's hair as he gathers Grantaire into his arms for one brief moment before releasing him and turning to the door.

Grantaire blinks at the other wolf, uncertain. "Is that it? Did you not have any other questions for me?"

Pausing in the doorway, Combeferre turns and shakes his head. Another slight smile dances across his face. "No. Between you and Enjolras, I think I have my answer."

With that Enjolras' beta is gone, disappearing as quietly as he appeared.

Grantaire hopes that he gave Combeferre the right answer, though he's afraid that he's not sure what exactly the question had been.

XXX

_Gather._

The word isn't quite a word. It's a sense of the pack, of all ten of them together, of peace and security and safety, of strength and family and unrestrained delight, of potential and wonder and just a hint of danger. It's all that the pack gathering means to Enjolras, condensed into less than a millisecond, and it blazes through the pack-bonds.

It's not a command, but it jerks Courfeyrac's head up, drags him roughly back to full consciousness and awareness despite Combeferre's fingers dancing along his furred ears, and he accidentally knocks the book that Combeferre had balanced on his back onto the floor. Combeferre's head comes up, also, a slight frown and a pulse of uncertainty running from him through their mate-bond. Bounding off Combeferre's bed, shaking his fur into place, Courfeyrac slips out the half-open door of Combeferre's room.

He briefly misses the feel of Combeferre's fingers on his head, but that's all right. If Enjolras is sending out a suggestion that the pack gather, it's time to stop attempting to prove Combeferre wrong. Especially since he wasn't doing a very good job proving that studying in wolf form is quite possible, though Combeferre cheated by playing with his ears.

Courfeyrac checks the time twice, reassuring himself that the night hasn't fled faster than he expected. It's odd for Enjolras to summon the pack to his side before late in the night, not unless there's something important to discuss. Following his sense of his alpha and the rest of the pack to their common room, he takes his place at Enjolras' left hand.

He knows what's coming as soon as he looks at Grantaire. Grantaire is at the center of the pack's attention, even Enjolras' eyes focused on him. For his part the stray exudes a mixture of glee and terror, his gaze flitting from one member of the pack to another, a combination of wariness and burning hope in his eyes.

Enjolras doesn't turn to look at Courfeyrac or Combeferre or the rest as they join the gathering. He continues to watch the stray, his blue eyes filled with a hunger and desire that Courfeyrac recognizes, though Courfeyrac can sense that Enjolras is trying to keep his expression blank.

Enjolras wants the stray. Enjolras' power thrums through all of the pack-bonds, hungry and eager, and Courfeyrac blinks in surprise. He's felt this before from his alpha, every time Enjolras decides that he wants a new pack member, but he wasn't expecting to feel it in regards to Grantaire.

It seems that whatever reservations Enjolras had about the stray have disappeared.

He's glad, but he doesn't have time to comment before Enjolras speaks, his voice quiet, as stripped of emotion as his face. As though that could keep the rest of them from sensing what he wants. "Now that we're all gathered, Grantaire, you may ask your question."

"I have seen your pack." Grantaire's gaze moves to Enjolras, his head lowering, his body taking on a submissive posture that had been missing when he watched the rest of them. "And I beg your leave to join it. All of your leaves."

Grantaire turns from Enjolras to Combeferre, keeping his posture the same, from Combeferre to Courfeyrac, from Courfeyrac to Bahorel, all the way down the hierarchy of the pack. Submitting to all of them, requesting acceptance of all of them, and Courfeyrac lets out a slow breath, his ears pricked forward, his tail waving in frantic happiness despite his best attempts to make it stop.

It's a good way to ask their pack for admittance. It's a nice twist on the traditional ask-and-answer, faithful enough to put their instincts at ease, changed enough to show that he has been paying attention to what they say. Courfeyrac wonders, briefly, if someone coached the stray on what to say, and finds himself glancing at Enjolras.

That's unfair, though, to both Grantaire and to Enjolras. Enjolras wouldn't try to sway their judgment, has been doing everything in his power to keep them from seeing how much he wants to claim the stray.

And Grantaire is clever enough to have figured out how best to approach this issue on his own. Courfeyrac barely manages to contain a yip of proud delight as he watches the stray.

"Your request is heard." Enjolras straightens, turning away from Grantaire with a visible effort. "The pack will consider it, and give you an answer as soon as a consensus is reached. Please wait in your room until one of us summons you."

Grantaire leaves quietly, without another word, though he pauses at the door to take one last look at Enjolras before bounding up the stairs.

Stretching, Courfeyrac pulls his human form around him. Talking is apparently going to be a very important skill for the evening.

For a moment he thinks that he'll simply speak as he is, but then he takes in the hesitancy in everyone's faces, the wariness as they look from Enjolras to the door that Grantaire has just exited through. The pack hadn't been expecting this, not yet. Their wolves are eager for a decision to be made; the rational parts of their minds aren't quite so certain.

Add to that Enjolras' barely-contained eagerness…

"Well." Scratching behind his ear as he stands, Courfeyrac smiles at Enjolras. "I think I'd like to go grab some clothing before we start debating this in earnest."

After a second's hesitation Enjolras nods, leaning back against the wall, and the tension that had held the pack stationary is broken.

Courfeyrac isn't the only one who leaves to go change. He watches Musichetta pad up the stairs on four silent feet, Jehan right behind him. The other two wolves are gone for only a few seconds longer than he is, though, and when they return all eyes turn to Enjolras.

Enjolras straightens again, his hands held still at his side, and the thrum of his hungry power through the pack-bonds slowly lessens until Courfeyrac can only feel it because he's looking for it. A slight smile turns the corners of Enjolras' mouth up. "Discuss."

Joly breaks the silence, nuzzling against Bossuet and speaking to a point just to the right of Combeferre. "I like him. I don't see a reason not to make him pack."

"I haven't had much of a chance to talk with him." Monet wraps his arms around Feuilly's neck, his teeth nipping lightly at Feuilly's shoulder as his eyes narrow.

"If you wanted to…" Enjolras gestures toward the stairs, each motion contained, tense, though still with his usual grace.

"No. That's all right." Shaking his head, Monet pulls back, leaving one arm around Feuilly's shoulders. "Feuilly approves of him, overall, and that's pretty much the only vote of confidence I need."

"We all know his weaknesses." Combeferre's voice is soft. "His drinking could be a problem."

"He promises he'll stop if we ask him to." Enjolras hesitates, his shoulders dipping down and up again, shivering a ruff that isn't present in this form. "Or I could order him to stop."

"Promises to stop drinking can be hard ones to keep." Courfeyrac speaks quietly, looking between Enjolras and Combeferre. Enjolras wants this stray as his; Combeferre… Combeferre is almost impossible to read right now, his emotions clamped down low, his mind focused on Enjolras rather than replying to any of Courfeyrac's probes. Courfeyrac doesn't like being kept away from Combeferre mentally, so he crosses to Combeferre's side and presses himself against the male. "But I think he really would try. I don't think it would come down to you commanding him to do anything."

"I wouldn't want to command him like that." Enjolras shudders again. "Not unless he asked me to, at least."

"Besides." Bahorel straightens. "Drinking every once in a while isn't such a bad thing."

After a moment Combeferre nods. "He's cynical. He doesn't really believe in what we're doing. Even though he says he'll help us, he's going to find it difficult to articulate our desires to others."

"So we teach him." Courfeyrac shrugs. "We don't ask him to do any convincing of others until we've convinced him ourselves."

Combeferre nods again, his expression grim. "He needs us."

"He—" Courfeyrac trails off, tilting his head and considering Combeferre with one brow raised. "You realize that isn't a flaw, right?"

"It could be." Shrugging, Combeferre looks away. "He'll say or do anything to be with us, because he needs us. It's… different than it has been with a lot of the others."

Joly speaks to Combeferre's chest, his head low, his eyes downcast. "We needed you, as well. What other pack would accept a trio like us?"

"Or me." Bahorel raises one eyebrow, his bright green eyes fixing Combeferre in a stare that's half-challenge before falling away. "There aren't all that many who would want to keep a half-breed wolf who accidentally causes other wolves to Change. I can interact with other packs well enough for short-term things, I'm great with the humans, and I would have done fine on my own if I had to stay a stray, but… well, I'm glad that I found you."

"And we're glad to have all of you." Combeferre says the words, but the truth of them rings through the pack-bonds for a moment, Enjolras' power tethered to each of them, drawing forth and reiterating their relationships to each other, and Courfeyrac draws in a sharp breath as he bites down on Combeferre's shoulder.

It's a good feeling. It's a _strong_ feeling, a connected, contented, powerful feeling, but it's not a necessary thing. It's not something Enjolras would normally have felt the need or desire to drown their conscious thought in, and Courfeyrac raises his head to blink blearily at his alpha.

Is Enjolras always this tempestuous, this eager and potent when they're considering a new pack member?

Yes. His rational mind says yes, remembers drowning in this sense of rightness and belonging with Jehan's joining, with Bahorel's, with Feuilly and Monet, with Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta.

His wolf just says that his alpha wants this stray, that their pack is going to grow, and yearns to have the magic unleashed and completed.

Combeferre's quiet for several long seconds, his arm tight around Courfeyrac's shoulders. "The stray's also kind. Eager to speak his mind, to be heard, and not afraid to voice an opinion, but kind."

"That's two things." Courfeyrac smiles fondly at his mate, staying where he is rather than returning to Enjolras' other side, resting his head against Combeferre's shoulder. "And I'm fairly certain neither of them is a flaw."

"Enjolras said to discuss, not to condemn." Combeferre leans into Courfeyrac's touch, though his eyes continue to scan the rest of the pack. "These are my observations."

"I agree about the kindness." Musichetta has a hand on each of his mates. "When we comfort him at night, he's… surprised. Surprised and relieved and always eager to make _us_ more comfortable, to return the reassurance, to do what he can to help us."

"It shows when we're talking to him, too." Joly closes his eyes, pressing back against Musichetta's hand. "He notices how we react. He cares when he says something that hurts or bothers or even just annoys us. He'll be a good friend, I think."

Courfeyrac reaches around Combeferre's shoulders to tease at his opposite ear. "Do you have any other _observations _to make?"

"No." Combeferre twists his head away from Courfeyrac's hand. "I would say that's a fairly comprehensive list."

Enjolras straightens, his arms crossed over his chest, his blond hair shining in the firelight. "Does anyone else wish to say anything before the vote?"

Silence is the pack's answer, a waiting, eager silence.

"All right." Enjolras stares toward the stray's room for one long moment before purposefully turning to each of them in turn. "How will we vote? Do you want me to take the votes from you? Do we want to do this like the humans do, to provide some anonymity? Do—"

"If someone votes against, that's it, isn' t it?" Courfeyrac speaks quietly, not expecting Enjolras to turn on him but not sure how in control his alpha is. "And we'll all know who did before the week's out. We'll do this like we normally do, a verbal vote, and you can save your strength for bringing him into the pack later."

_I'll always have strength to do what's needed for the pack._

The words ring through the pack-bonds, but it takes Courfeyrac a moment to make sure that they weren't actually spoken aloud. They're too crisp, too clear, too clean, more words than emotions or vague ideas. The meaning behind them is also too sharp, though, to ever be conveyed with words, a dedication to and love of the pack, honor and respect and a deep affection for all of them that Courfeyrac could drown in if he allowed himself, and that means that the words weren't verbal.

Enjolras blushes, just slightly, and wraps his arms harder around his chest. "We need to vote."

"I vote accept him." Jehan darts his gaze up to meet Enjolras'. "Even if he doesn't like poetry, I like him. I like his story. I like his oddity."

"I also vote we accept him." Joly's smile is bright and pleased. "He makes a good pillow."

"Accept him. I like talking to him about art, and he can follow directions if he chooses to." The good humor slips from Feuilly's face, and his hand clenches hard at his side. "And if we have to, if we don't have another choice, we can always kill him later."

A growl rips itself from Courfeyrac's throat and he's covered half the distance between himself and Feuilly when Combeferre and Enjolras draw him up short.

Feuilly stares him in the eye for just a moment longer than most wolves would dare before submitting. "I said if we have to, Courfeyrac. I don't think we'll have to, and I wouldn't want to do it. But turning him away, exiling him… after talking with him, I'm fairly certain he would _prefer_ if we killed him."

Bossuet places a hand on Feuilly's shoulder opposite Monet, angling his body so that he's another barrier between Feuilly and Courfeyrac. "I don't think it would come to that, anyway. And I also vote for his acceptance. I've enjoyed spending the nights with him."

Letting out his breath in a long, slow sigh, Courfeyrac nods. "You're right, Feuilly. I just… don't like thinking about having to hurt a pack member."

Especially not with the magic so bright and high, running through his mind and his veins despite Enjolras' best attempts to control it, making his wolf more aware and his emotions more volatile.

Not when he brought the male to the pack, introduced him to everyone, is responsible for him.

"Another for acceptance." Musichetta's smile as he watches Courfeyrac is far more knowing than a submissive wolf's should be. "He's a sweet thing, and he does make quite the good pillow. I think he'll do well with watching over pups when we finally have them."

Enjolras and Combeferre's fingers both tighten on his arm, and Courfeyrac forces himself to take a few steps back, drawing them with him. At least mention of fall and pups will shift attention away from his lack of self-control at the moment.

"I vote acceptance." Monet's words drain the tension again, drawing the vote back to how it should be. "Anyone who can earn Feuilly's approval is good enough for me."

"He's got spirit." Grinning, Bahorel buries his fingers in Jehan's hair. "He says his mind, even against an alpha. I like submissives with spirit. I vote acceptance."

Which brings it back to Courfeyrac. Leaning his head against his alpha, Courfeyrac tries to control the trembling in his body. It would be easier if he didn't feel the same trembling mirrored in Enjolras' form. "Acceptance. I brought him here, and I've watched what he does. He'll try, and I think with us he can be amazing."

Combeferre's hand is trembling, too, and Courfeyrac closes his eyes.

"Acceptance." The word is a whisper, but it rings in the pack's expectant silence. "Bahorel and Joly are both right. He both speaks his mind and has a deep well of compassion in him. I find it… interesting. I can't justify turning him away."

He's not entirely certain that accepting him is the right thing to do, and Courfeyrac can suddenly feel Combeferre's hesitancy, his fear that they're making the wrong choice, but it's overshadowed by hope, optimism, a desire to teach and protect.

"I've tried to keep my own opinion from influencing this." Enjolras slowly lowers his hands to his sides, and the thrum of hungry power through the pack-bonds amplifies a hundred fold, something Courfeyrac would have said was impossible a moment ago. "I think I failed rather spectacularly, though. I vote acceptance. A consensus is reached."

They would howl. If they could, if it were safe, they would raise their voices in joyous song to call the stray back to them.

They can't, Enjolras' power binding them back, enforcing the order he gives them every night, and so the elation and desire instead echo through all the pack-bonds.

"Courfeyrac." Enjolras' blue eyes seem to blaze hotter than the fire. "Would you be kind enough to bring Grantaire to me?"

Courfeyrac doesn't say anything as he bounds toward the stairs. He doesn't need to.

He's certain the whole pack knows that there's nothing else he'd rather do right now.


	18. Part Seventeen: Acceptance

**Author's Note: **I am back from the funeral, and everything actually went really well. I'm very grateful for all the well-wishes and the kind words. I hope that this chapter was worth the wait!

_Part Seventeen: Acceptance_

Grantaire knows the instant a decision is reached.

He can feel it in the threads of magic that cling to him from Enjolras. The strands suddenly burn with power, bright and blue and hungry, and he draws in a sharp breath to keep himself from whimpering.

It can't be true.

It's impossible.

But it's happening.

Unless it's a trick. Unless they've decided to kill him instead, and Enjolras is simply trying to put him at ease, to give him a moment of hope and joy before the end.

He can't believe that of Enjolras, though. He can't believe that of this pack, not and keep his sanity intact, so he shoves away the doubts, closes his eyes, and simply revels in the feeling.

Courfeyrac's hand on his shoulder causes him to open his eyes, and he blinks up at the man's dark blond curls. A fierce smile brightens Courfeyrac's face, and his hand trembles where it touches Grantaire's arm. "You can feel it, Grantaire? You know what's been decided?"

"You want me." The words are a soft whisper, and he can feel tears in his eyes. "The pack… you've decided to accept me."

"We have." Courfeyrac pulls him into a fierce embrace, Courfeyrac's hand tilting Grantaire's head down as his chin rubs against Grantaire's temple. "You're going to be ours, Grantaire, for better or worse. Are you ready for the rest of the ceremony?"

No. He'll never be ready for this to be real, but he is so desperately happy to live in this dream. His voice is a strangled whisper when he speaks. "Yes."

"Do you know what to do?" Courfeyrac holds him out at arm's length, his hazel eyes earnest, though he continues to tremble with barely-repressed energy. "Do you remember how to act?"

"I simply… let him do it, don't I?" Grantaire stares back at Courfeyrac, dismay suddenly coloring his voice. "I let him bind me to the pack, and then I go down the ranks and challenge if I think I should, which I won't, and—"

"Let him control the magic, yes." Grinning again, Courfeyrac lays his hand across Grantaire's mouth. "He'll do that well enough, just don't fight him. Approach him. Ask your question again. And when he bites you, when he draws your blood, he'll want you to draw his in return. Do it. Don't fight him on it."

Grantaire stands in stunned silence for a few seconds. His voice is a thready whisper again. "Bite… _him_?"

"He says it helps the magic." Courfeyrac shrugs. "I don't know, I've never taken a subordinate, but it's what he wants of us, and our pack-bonds are the strongest I've ever felt."

"Yes, but… your alpha is also the strongest alpha anyone's ever felt." Shaking his head, Grantaire backs away from Courfeyrac. "I can't bite _him_. I can't…"

"You can and you will." Courfeyrac's voice is stern, his expression fierce, the smile gone. "He wants you, Grantaire. The pack's accepted you. You can do this. When he bites you, bite him back. Taste his blood as he tastes yours. Or have you changed your mind? Do you want to leave? It… might not be too late to make that choice."

"No!" Shaking his head, Grantaire reaches out and clutches hard to Courfeyrac's elbow. His eyes meet Courfeyrac's, and he can hear the desperation in his own voice. "No, please. I'll do it. I'll do anything."

"Ah, Grantaire…" Courfeyrac's voice is sad as he gathers Grantaire into his arms again, once more tilting Grantaire's head down to face the floor. "Don't be so fearful. Don't be so desperate. There's no desperation here, not right now. Only joy, and the completion of something that's been several weeks in the making. Now, are you ready?"

"Yes." Grantaire forces his fingers to disentangle themselves from Courfeyrac's clothing, straightening with a deep breath. "I have to be, right?"

"If you don't want him to come charging up the stairs, yes, I'd recommend being ready." Courfeyrac's grin is back, his eyes hungry fire as he pats Grantaire's cheek. "Now _come_, my stray, and see how amazing a pack can be."

He follows Courfeyrac, though he's slower than the other wolf, his feet touching each step rather than bounding down them two and three at a time in a fit of manic energy. It's all right, though. He doesn't need Courfeyrac to guide him to their common room. Even if he didn't know where it was, the thrum of energy and the scent of excited wolves would tell him where to go.

He knows the others are there. He knows the rest of the pack is watching him, as well, but all he has eyes for is Enjolras.

The blond wolf stands in front of the fire. His shirt is half-open, his shoulders almost bared, though his arms are crossed in front of his chest. His blue eyes catch Grantaire as soon as he's a fur's length into the room, and Grantaire suddenly finds it hard to draw breath, impossible to move.

Enjolras' power fills the room, fire and light and Change and the promise of _home_, and Grantaire lowers his eyes, tilts his neck to the side, makes himself as open and vulnerable as he can.

"Grantaire." Enjolras takes a step toward him, and Grantaire finds himself glancing up to see those beautiful blue eyes focused on him. "The pack has heard your request."

"And the answer, alpha?" The words are panting but coherent, something Grantaire wasn't certain they would be.

Enjolras _smiles_, an expression that brightens rather than dimming the fierce light in his eyes. "The pack grants you leave to join. Do you wish to be one of us, Grantaire?"

"Yes." There's no thought needed to answer these questions. They're simple, easy enough for a stray to answer without needing to think for very good reason. Thinking is impossible when faced with an alpha like this.

Enjolras takes another step toward him. "Will you fight with us, giving your support to our causes?"

That's not the right question. Those aren't the right words, a declaration of dedication to Enjolras, but it's close enough. "Yes."

"Will you willingly tie your magic to mine, to ours, bind your soul to us, knowing what you know of us?"

Grantaire has moved forward, somehow, and if he thinks back he can vaguely recall taking a step forward with each answer. There are only two steps between them now. Taking another step forward, Grantaire lets out a shaky breath. "_Yes._ Without hesitation, yes."

Enjolras obliterates the space between them, standing directly in front of Grantaire. His hand under Grantaire's chin, he stares up into Grantaire's eyes. "Then I declare you a stray no more. You are ours, Grantaire, and I welcome you gladly."

Enjolras pulls him down into a tight embrace, the alpha's breath hot and fast against his neck. Enjolras' magic is hot around them, a crackle of energy in the air, and Grantaire draws in a sharp breath as Enjolras' teeth brush his neck and Enjolras' thoughts brush his mind.

Hungry.

Eager.

Excited.

So excited, so happy to have another pack member, so hungry to be let loose, and Grantaire can feel his knees weakening as he realizes exactly how much this pack wants him.

Enjolras positions Grantaire's head against Enjolras' shoulder, Grantaire's breath panting against Enjolras' clavicle. Enjolras' voice is a strangled whisper. "When I bite you, bite me. Hard. Understood?"

He's glad that Courfeyrac told him about this ahead of time. He isn't able to make any coherent sounds now, wouldn't be able to sort through the morass of _right_ and _wrong_ that tries to flood his mind as he considers what Enjolras' asking him to do. All he can manage is a brief, shaky nod.

Enjolras' teeth are in the scruff of his neck before he can do any more, and he forces himself to open his mouth and bite down hard on the skin that Enjolras has placed his head against.

He can taste the blood, barely, but it's drowned out in the taste of fire, electricity, light, _energy_. He can feel Enjolras' teeth in his neck, but it's a muted feeling, no real pain, and it quickly disappears as Enjolras' magic mingles with his.

For a few glorious, interminable moments he can see the pack as Enjolras sees them.

He can see Combeferre, steady, caring, a rock to return to, a point to regroup at, a source of knowledge and caution and acceptance.

He can see Courfeyrac, fiery love and fierce desires, a font of unending ideas, a force eager to tie the pack to others and others to the pack.

He can see Bahorel, the smiling half-breed, so good at talking with the humans, so strong, a testament to perseverance and adaptation.

He can see Monet, beautiful love, proof that their people can see beyond tradition and learn to fly even without Enjolras.

He can see Musichetta, loyalty, love, determination, another who is able to think sideways when the way forward seems impossible and thus find new trails.

He can see Bossuet, good cheer despite all that the universe can throw at him, determination undaunted by any set-back.

He can see Feuilly, absolute fierceness, stubborn survival, proof that wasn't asked for or needed that humanity is willing and able to adapt to the Pack.

He can see Joly, kindness and compassion, the healer who will fight if he needs to, the submissive who dared to approach an alpha.

He can see Jehan, sharp poet, wordsmith, lover of love, proof that submissives need to be given leave to speak, that to be submissive doesn't mean to be weak.

He sees himself.

He sees a survivor. He sees a man who has held on to compassion and kindness despite years of loneliness and loss. He sees a man who could have given up long ago and didn't. He sees _potential_, so much potential, and he sees absolute joy at being able to find and protect and nurture that potential.

He sees where Enjolras expects him to fit into the pack. He sees himself with Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta, sleeping together, drinking together, helping each other. He sees himself with Bahorel, drinking with the other male, fighting side by side. He sees himself with Feuilly, sketching, experimenting, a riot of colors and shapes that don't make any sense but which Grantaire loves anyway. He sees himself with Courfeyrac, but that quickly segues into _everyone_ with Courfeyrac, Courfeyrac as the center of a web of connections as surely as Enjolras is.

He sees _Enjolras_. He sees the deep, unyielding, unapologetic love that Enjolras has for all his wolves. He sees the _power_ that Enjolras has, the ability to change and break and rearrange everything to create a better whole. He sees the certainty, the absolute unflinching conviction that he and his people can help shape the world into a better place. He sees the _hope_, undaunted hope, that they will see humans and wolves coexisting in harmony, unbound, unbent, unafraid.

He sees the world as Enjolras sees it. He sees the places that the world is broken, the places that it can be fixed, where the pack can be useful. He sees the danger it will place them in, the cost that it might incur, and he sees that the gains will be worth the losses, no matter how painful and terrible.

When coherent thought returns he and Enjolras are on the ground, Enjolras sitting on top of him, the alpha's fingers buried in his hair. The wound on Enjolras' shoulder has healed to a faint scar; Grantaire has no doubt that the wound on his own neck has healed as well.

Sitting up slowly, gingerly, Grantaire draws an experimental breath. The scent of the pack-bonds is thick in the room, Enjolras' blazing power overlying all of their individual scents… and his scent is part of it.

He can sense the others, dimly, a cacophony of joy and expectation as the pack prowls around him and Enjolras, and he can't stop tears from escaping. He doesn't even try. If they saw even a fraction of what he did when Enjolras claimed him, they'll understand.

"You are mine." Enjolras' fingers slide from his hair down his cheek, wiping away the tears. "You are ours. Find your place in the pack, Grantaire."

Standing on shaky legs, Grantaire turns from where Enjolras lounges on the floor to the pack surrounding them.

He approaches Combeferre first, keeping his head down and his eyes turned away. Swallowing, wiping the remaining tears from his face, he forces his voice to work again. "Beta. I submit to you."

Combeferre reaches out to him, pulls him in close and bites down hard on his neck. Grantaire doesn't resist, keeping his head tilted to the side.

Holding him out at arm's length, Combeferre licks his lips and releases a slow breath. "I accept your submission. I accept you as pack, Grantaire."

He's not certain about it. Combeferre's doubts are clear through the pack-bond, flowing through the links that are blazing brighter than any sun. He will accept Grantaire, though, give him the benefit of the doubt, and as long as Grantaire doesn't disappoint Enjolras too badly everything will be fine between them.

"My turn." Courfeyrac pulls Grantaire away from Combeferre's grasp.

"Gamma." Grantaire smiles. He can't help it. Courfeyrac's good cheer, sheer _ecstasy_, floods his mind as Courfeyrac touches his arm, and to do anything but smile would be impossible. "I love you, gamma, and I submit to you."

"I love you too, Grantaire!" Courfeyrac laughs, a pleased, eager sound, and wraps his arms around Grantaire. His teeth are gentle as they nuzzle against Grantaire's neck. "Welcome to the pack, old man."

Without another word, Courfeyrac turns him and sends him stumbling toward Bahorel.

Bahorel claps him on the shoulder, green eyes dancing as he looks up at Grantaire, clearly waiting.

"Delta." Grantaire grins back at Bahorel. "I prefer all my limbs intact. I submit."

"Ah, no sense of adventure." Pulling him forward roughly, Bahorel nips with surprising gentleness at his neck. "I'm glad to have you, Grantaire. We're going to have fun together."

Monet takes him by the arm before he can respond, eager, excited.

"Epsilon." Turning his head once more, Grantaire keeps his eyes down, not wanting to insult Feuilly's mate. "I submit."

"I accept." Monet's teeth sink into his skin fiercely enough to leave bruises, the type of bite that tradition calls for.

The eagerness from the pack is palpable through the pack-bonds, a desire for this to be done, for them to be free of all tradition.

Turning to Musichetta, Grantaire submits once more. "I submit, zeta."

Musichetta kisses the side of his neck, a gentle caress of his lips. "I gladly accept."

Bossuet's arms wrap around him from behind, Bossuet's lips touching the other side of his neck. "I also accept. Unless you wish to challenge me?"

"No, eta." Grantaire can feel the giddy energy of the pack rushing into him, a smile on his face. "No challenge from me."

Bossuet and Muschichetta pull away, leaving him facing Feuilly. Crossing his arms over his chest, Feuilly frowns at Grantaire.

"I submit, iota." Grantaire reaches out to touch Feuilly's arm, gently, wondering at the conflict he can feel in Feuilly's emotions.

Finally, with a low, frustrated growl, Feuilly darts forward and bites hard at Grantaire's shoulder. His body relaxes as he does, though he makes a displeased face. "Accepted."

Tilting his head, Grantaire stares questioningly at Feuilly. "Are you… unhappy with me as a pack member?"

"No." Joly answers, turning Grantaire toward him as he does. "He doesn't like biting us. It's one of the few human quirks he's kept, but it's not possible for him to resist his wolf when it's something like this."

"Ah… I'm sorry, Feuilly."

"It's not your fault." Feuilly looks away, his shoulders hunching, and some of the edge of expectant ecstasy fades from the pack-bonds. Scowling, Feuilly glares around at the other wolves. "And if the rest of you let this bother you, I'm going to be even _more_ annoyed. Let's finish this and enjoy ourselves."

"Right." Turning to Joly again, Grantaire smiles. "Theta, I submit."

Joly's hand pats his cheek, gentle, and Grantaire can feel the joy in Joly's mind. Biting at Grantaire's neck, Joly grins widely. "I accept. Gladly. I look forward to talking with you more."

That leaves only Jehan, and Grantaire turns to the poet.

Jehan stares up at him, the smaller male's brown eyes slitted. "And me, Grantaire?"

If there was any wolf that he could possibly challenge, it would be Jehan. It would be foolish, because Jehan still has more magic than him, but with how much physically larger he is than the poet there's a chance that he could win.

Except he told Jehan that he wouldn't.

And Jehan has been nothing but kind to him.

And Bahorel would probably hurt him, badly, if he were to challenge the male's mate when their scents make it clear who should be dominant.

"Kappa." Grantaire bows his head, hunches down, exposing his neck. "I submit."

Jehan's arms wrap around him, pull him down even further until he's on Jehan's level, and Jehan's teeth sink eagerly into his neck.

It isn't like it was with Enjolras. There isn't the sheer ferocity, the _intensity_ drowning out other thought, but the pack magic still flares bright between them.

Jehan is happy for him. Jehan is eager to have another pack member, to speak with him more, to watch how his bonds with Enjolras and the others form and change. Jehan is writing poetry even as Grantaire's blood fills his mouth, his mind awash in words that Grantaire can hear though the order they come at him in is all wrong.

Pulling back from him, Jehan licks his bloody lips and smiles. "I accept, Grantaire. Very happily, I accept."

Enjolras hauls himself to his feet, slowly, his blue eyes half-lidded as he watches Grantaire. "No challenge made, then. No ranks changed. Just one added. Be made welcome, Grantaire, lambda of my pack."

It's the end of the ceremony, the end of tradition.

It's the signal that the pack's been waiting for, and Grantaire is knocked from his feet as Jehan and Joly both pounce on him. He catches a brief glimpse of Enjolras being embraced by Combeferre on one side and Courfeyrac on the other before Jehan nipping fiercely at his neck distracts him as Joly's tongue slides along the side of his face. He can hear clothing being discarded, the soft yips of the pack finding their wolf forms. A rush of warm wind swirls through the room, the smell of leaves and growing things suddenly strong, and Grantaire can't hold back the Change despite his still being in his clothes.

It's all right, though. He's not the only one struggling out of his clothes, and when he's done he's free to run and wrestle with the pack.

One of them.

Truly, completely, undeniably one of them, his magic tied with theirs, his soul open to them as theirs are open to him.

He's never been happier in his life.


	19. Part Eighteen: Forward

**Author's Note:** Thank you so much to everyone, again, for the kind comments! Warning in this chapter for more werewolves—if you made it through the last chapter and the first scene of this, you pretty much have made it through all the werewolf weirdness. Again, I'm thrilled that everyone's been reading and enjoying! Also, a brief query: the main story arc for this first section (Grantaire's acceptance to the pack) is just about wrapped up. I've got another four arcs planned out. Do people prefer that I break each arc into a separate story, leave it all as one, or have no preference?

_Part Eighteen: Forward_

They run.

They run because they can.

They run because they are healthy, young, strong, _together_.

They run because this is their territory, their place, their land.

They run because their prey runs before them, and they are _hungry_.

And he runs with them, _one of them_, his feet hitting the ground in tandem with them, and everything is right in the world.

The center of the pack is the blond female wolf, loping at a constant speed that they could keep up for days if they had to. The female keeps his head up, scenting the air, ears flicking as he listens to the sounds of their prey crashing through the trees ahead of them.

The rest of the pack is spread out around the blond, running to the left, to the right, sprinting ahead and dropping behind. They tease at each other, at Grantaire, at the blond, nipping and swiping at ears and tails and paws with impunity. The blond doesn't stop them, but he doesn't participate in the games, his focus on their mission.

They are hungry.

Their prey is up ahead.

Those who run ahead bring the blond information. With a touch of their muzzles to his body they transfer scents, sights, smells, and the blond gives the information to the rest of them.

Their prey is weakening. The scent of blood and desperation is strong around the beast. Their prey crashes through the trees and underbrush that they run around, driven to distraction and stupidity by the scent of their pack on its trail, and soon they will run it down.

Another female wolf ranges from the blond's side to the edge of the pack and back, his scent sharp with excitement, keeping anyone in the pack from falling too far behind or ranging too far to either side or ahead. This female shoulder-checks Grantaire, demanding his attention, and Grantaire turns to him with pricked ears.

Another shoulder-check, and Grantaire knows what the female wants. He wants Grantaire to run with him, up ahead, to see their prey.

It takes no second urging, and Grantaire's large brown paws strike the icy-cold ground in tandem with the female's—Courfeyrac, that is the female's name, though his scent is easier to hold in Grantaire's mind, a sharp musk of vibrant joy and vitality coupled with a thick earthy scent and the cutting sting of a bright spring wind.

Grantaire and Courfeyrac lunge ahead of the blond wolf, Courfeyrac butting his head against the blond's shoulder as they pass. Stretching their legs to the limit, they follow the crashing of their prey.

They come upon the creature just as it breaks into an open clearing in front of a cliff. Turning, the beast lowers its head, shaking antlers at the two of them as its huge hooves dig into the frozen ground.

The rest of the pack slowly trickles into the clearing, forming a loose semi-circle around their prey, driving it farther from the edge of the forest and closer to the cliff edge. Drawing a deep lungful of air, Grantaire darts forward, yipping in manic delight as he dodges left and right to avoid crashing hooves, worrying their prey into an even more angry state. The angrier the beast is, the easier it will be for the pack to—

His right front paw suddenly slips out from under him, skidding on a shard of frozen ground, and his yip of joy turns to a yowl of pain and fear.

Teeth sink into the nape of his neck, draw him back as three other pack members dart at their prey's flanks, distracting it from Grantaire. Scrambling back to his feet, he nuzzles against the blond wolf for a moment.

Savior.

Leader.

_Alpha._

The blond nudges him back, growls low in his throat to call the other pack members to reform the semi-circle. Once everyone is in their place, the blond draws a deep breath.

The pack inhales in tandem with their alpha, their minds open to him, ready to act.

The blond wolf attacks first, but the rest follow shortly. They act together, knowing where each member of the pack is, what they are doing, what they are _planning_ on doing. Even though the hooved beast weighs almost as much as the entire pack put together, it doesn't stand a chance.

The blond makes sure the beast dies quickly once it falls. His teeth sink into its neck, and blood fountains over his fur even as the prey's eyes glaze over in death.

It's Courfeyrac who starts the pack howling. Courfeyrac's mate joins him almost immediately, the male's voice a deep counterpoint to the female's high tenor. The blond steps back from their conquered prey and settles down, bright eyes closed for a moment before they are raised to the shining light of the full moon.

Once their alpha joins the song the rest of the pack follows, a soaring, ecstatic harmony that Grantaire is a part of.

_He is a part of it._

He is with a pack, a healthy, happy pack, and he is part of it.

Raising his muzzle to sing to the Lady, Grantaire allows his ecstasy to pour out of his throat and his mind and into the rest of the pack.

He can't think of a time in his life when he has been happier.

XXX

Grantaire wakes when his pillow tries to crawl away from the pack's huddle.

Giving a brief whine of dismay, he stretches out a paw to hold the offending wolf in place, trying to cling to the dream and the deep pack-connection for just a moment more.

Then he realizes that his ears are pinned back to his head, that his eyes are dropping away from the wolf he's attempting to pin, and he freezes.

Enjolras' fingers stroke along his head, tease at his ears for a moment before falling away again. "It was a pleasant night, Grantaire, and a pleasant dream, but dawn's come. It's time to get back to work."

The rest of the pack is stirring around them, others shifting from wolf to human form. Stretching theatrically, Courfeyrac stands, shivers, and then pounces back into the mass of wolves, gathering Combeferre's wolf form into his arms and earning a startled whine of protest from his brown-furred mate. "It's too cold to wake up yet."

Feuilly's red fur matches his red hair, and his hazel eyes narrow as he stretches into his human form and stumbles to his feet. "It's not going to get warmer until we get up and someone tends the fire. Besides, some of us have to get to work. Or to class. Including, I believe, you."

"It would be nice if time could stop for moments like this." Jehan is sprawled atop Bahorel's form, the poet's fingers buried in the black fur of Bahorel's neck, stroking the other wolf. Bossuet, Joly and Musichetta are a tangled mass of limbs next to them, Bossuet's tail under Bahorel's back, Joly's head pillowed on Grantaire's back. The poet slithers over Bahorel's body to stroke Musichetta's head, nip at one of Bossuet's ears, and eventually sprawls across Grantaire. "If we could just continue to drown in the magic, to give ourselves over to it and each other, how far would it take us? How long would it last? How tangled could we make our minds and our souls, our thoughts and our instincts, our wolves and our human sides, our knowledge of reality versus dream?"

Bahorel's human arms drag the poet back to him, and he bites down hard on Jehan's shoulder. "I like you as you and the rest of them as themselves, too. While it's… amazing when something like this happens, we have to come back to ourselves afterward. We have work still to do."

Jehan leans back into Bahorel's arms, the poet's eyes wide and shining. "And when we don't? Can we play then? Can we see how far we can go then?"

"I'll go with you, Jehan." Bahorel continues to worry at Jehan's neck with his teeth. "The others…"

Combeferre has shifted back to his human form, though he is still wrapped in Courfeyrac's arms. "So long as we're careful not to injure any pack members, I'd be quite happy to experiment with you when we've got the time and opportunity to do it safely."

A deep chuckle rumbles from Bahorel's chest. "I'm not sure Jehan's so interested in safety precautions."

"Yes and no." Relaxing finally in Bahorel's arms, Jehan heaves a deep sigh. "I don't want to have anything bad happen to any of us—you know I love you all. But there's so much potential, so much _power_ in our people in general and in our pack in particular… we barely scratched the surface of it last night, and I'm going to be writing about it for the next week at least."

"We'll be happy to read them." Joly lays his head in Jehan's lap, and the poet's fingers immediately start stroking through the higher-ranked wolf's hair.

Jehan will be writing poems that no one other than the pack will be able to read. Grantaire doesn't know how to sort out the emotions that rise in him as he considers that. He's happy to have been a part of something that the rest of the pack clearly enjoyed so much—to be the _impetus_ for it, his acceptance a moment of joy for all of them. He's angry, for the first time in a while, at the Pack's need to hide, at the fact that Jehan can't simply share his verses if they clearly mean so much to him.

And he's relieved, in a way, that the humans' fear will keep the verses confined to the pack, an experience _just_ for the pack, something he shares with Enjolras' wolves.

"It was a good night." Enjolras' voice is quiet contemplation, a faint smile on his face as he studies his pack. "We'll have more of them, but for now it's important that we keep to our usual schedule, that we don't let this interrupt any of our work. Remember your meeting today, Courfeyrac. And you had said that you'll talk with some of the medical students, Joly. And—"

"We know our work, Enjolras." Combeferre's smiling as he gently disentangles himself from Courfeyrac's hold, earning a whimper of protest from Courfeyrac. "We aren't going to be distracted from our aims by what happened. We haven't ever let it happen in the past, and we won't let it happen now."

"I know." Enjolras hesitates just for a moment, his eyes closing, and Grantaire can _feel_ it as Enjolras touches each of their pack-bonds. It's a tingle of electricity on the tip of his tongue, a thickening of the scent of power in the room, and Grantaire can watch Enjolras work his way down the pack. Combeferre closes his eyes, and both Combeferre and Enjolras smile; Courfeyrac doesn't close his eyes, but his grin widens and he wraps one hand around Combeferre's wrist, buries one in Musichetta's hair. Bahorel gives a snort of laughter; Monet sighs, his tail swishing. Musichetta, Bossuet, and Joly clamber over each other, Bossuet whining happily, Musichetta growling protectively, Joly laughing joyously. Feuilly tilts his head to the side, eyeing Enjolras, and both wolves straighten. Jehan moans, closing his eyes and raising Bahorel's arm to his mouth before biting down hard on it.

When Enjolras' thoughts finally touch his Grantaire finds himself freezing, uncertain what to send, what to say, how to respond. Enjolras' probe is tentative, gentle, questioning Grantaire's mental and emotional state, asking what he intends to do.

Happy.

He should probably try to come up with something else to send to Enjolras, but it's the emotion ringing true and strong through every fiber of his being.

He is one of Enjolras' pack. The truth of that is written into his scent now, stamped deeper than his skin—deeper than _their _skin. Enjolras' magic is the core of the pack-scent, but every member of the pack has their scent mixed in with it, and Grantaire's scent is tied into it now, coming from each of the pack members.

Drawing another breath, Grantaire allows the new pack-scent to linger on his tongue and in his nose and corrects the word for how he feels.

He is _ecstatic_.

Enjolras smiles and nods, his thoughts pulling back from Grantaire. "All right, then. I have to go, but I'll see you all later tonight at the Musain."

With that Enjolras is gone, Feuilly ducking out the door a moment later.

The rest of the pack begins to sort through the fabric scattered across the floor, Courfeyrac throwing articles of clothing toward their owners with apparent glee.

Shifting reluctantly to his human form, Grantaire picks up the shirt that Courfeyrac had tossed over his back. As the fabric falls open, he remembers again why he doesn't ever Change while he has his clothes on.

"Uh…" Holding the torn shirt up in front of him, Grantaire smiles at the other pack members. _His_ pack members, _his_ people. "I don't suppose anyone could recommend a good place to buy shirts… and lend me one in the meantime?"

XXX

Marius tries not to look too nervous as he slinks onto neutral territory.

He should probably try not to slink, either. He needs to not attract attention to himself. He needs to be calm.

It's hard, though. He's felt safe, the last few days. Even if he hasn't been, even if he knows in his mind that he was trespassing on another pack's territory, Cosette's garden had begun to feel like _his_. Well, like it's _theirs_, his and hers, their very small, very beautiful territory that's safe from the rest of the world.

The rest of _his_ world, at least, the rest of the Pack, and that's who he's frightened of now.

He needs to find a place to stay. The best place for him to look now is around the university, trying to find lodging near the edge of neutral territory… preferably away from the territories of the packs that had been the most determined to kill him when driving him away.

He wants to run. He wants to slink back to Cosette's garden and simply ignore the rest of the world.

He has to do this, though. To make Cosette happy, to really have a chance at doing what he's considering doing—abandoning the Pack as surely as they've abandoned him—he's going to need to find a den.

Squaring his shoulders, Marius lifts his head and meets the eyes of everyone around him.

All the humans turn away from him, and he nods to himself before striding further into neutral territory, his jaw set and his head held high.

XXX

"Thanks, Bossuet." Grantaire follows the other wolf as they head toward the university. "I appreciate the loan of the shirt and the assistance in getting some new clothes."

"No trouble." Bossuet smiles, shrugging his bag with his books into a more comfortable position on his shoulder. "Other than Combeferre I'm the one closest to your size, and I somehow think you're more comfortable in my clothes than in Combeferre's."

Offering a wry smile of his own, Grantaire nods. Sniffing surreptitiously at his own wrist, he mulls over the scent of the pack's beta that rises from his skin with every beat of his heart. It's a cool smell, calming, ice in early spring, but with a spicy undertone that Grantaire's wolf wants to spend more time musing over. "I… am much more comfortable in your clothes than in our beta's, yes. Not that I dislike him, but…"

"But he's Combeferre." Bossuet nods. "Don't worry, I understand. Though it's a bit odd, having our lambda being as big as our beta and bigger than our alpha or gamma."

"That's me." Grantaire shrugs, grinning, unable to help himself. Yesterday talking about his oddities might have stung, but not today. Nothing can hurt him today, because he smells of a pack… of the _best_ pack. "A mass of contradictions. A submissive who's bigger than some alphas and can't remember to keep his head down."

"Our submissive." Ruffling Grantaire's hair with one hand, Bossuet presses just slightly on the nape of Grantaire's neck, tilting his head down. "And we're very glad to have you, Grantaire."

Grantaire knows that it's true. He can _feel_ the truth of the statement, sliding along the pack-bond he shares with Bossuet as Bossuet's fingers graze his scalp. He knows the bond works both ways, that his giddy ecstasy will flood Bossuet, but habit forces his mouth to move. "You know that I'm glad to be here."

Pulling his hand back with a sharp indrawn breath, Bossuet nods. Swallowing hard, the mangy wolf offers Grantaire a shaky, warm smile. "Have you thought about what you're going to do? I know it's probably been rather hard for you to think for the last twenty hours or so, but…"

"But it's something I need to figure out." Grantaire studies his feet as they walk, still smiling. Every movement wafts the smell of the pack to his nose, and every sniff of that scent brings joy boiling through his veins. "I think… I'd like to see what being a student is like."

"It has its perks." Bossuet smiles. "Any particular type of student?"

"Law? Maybe?" Shrugging, Grantaire scratches behind his own ears, slitting his eyes in pleasure. "It might help me figure out what you guys are talking about when you're planning things. It's what Enjolras' studying, after all."

Bossuet laughs, a startled, bright, pleased sound. "Oh, you're going to need to do a lot more reading and studying than what they'll give you in class if you want to keep up with Enjolras."

Grantaire's smile falters. "You think it's a bad idea?"

"Bahorel will tell you it's a terrible idea, but I won't." Glancing his fingers across Grantaire's shoulders, Bossuet sends him a pulse of calm and peace and uncomplicated happiness that brings Grantaire's smile back with a vengeance. "I'd still like to pass the examinations, and we'll need as many of us as possible to have a solid grasp of legal issues when we're trying to design our new government. It was more your… idolization of Enjolras that entertained me."

"He's our alpha." Grantaire shrugs, trying not to feel too awkward. There's no censure in Bossuet's emotions, not yet, just a mixture of amusement and bemusement. "And I want to do what will make him happy."

Bossuet smiles, though he shakes his head in mock-dismay. "So smitten. I can help you start your reading. There's a lot of political theory that you'll need if you want to talk with Enjolras on an even footing, and that's what he _will_ want from you, eventually."

"Even though I'm lambda, he'll want me to talk with him." Grantaire knows that it's true, though it shouldn't be. Having seen what he did of Enjolras yesterday, he can't help but know that it's true. "Did you know our pack is too good to be true, Bossuet?"

"I've had the thought cross my mind." Bossuet's grin is guileless, an expression of pure joy, and Grantaire can't help but return it. "Joly and Musichetta and I would be quite happy to help you with your studies. Feuilly knows a ridiculous amount, and he's largely self-taught… it means he sometimes connects ideas that those of us with a more standard education don't. He'll be a good resource for random pieces of information. Perhaps you can discuss politics while you're discussing painting."

Grantaire bites down on his lip to keep from howling or yipping his pleasure as he considers painting with Feuilly, discussing politics with the human-turned-wolf, both of them _pack_.

"Courfeyrac, of course, is always happy to talk and to teach." Bossuet's smile manages to widen as he watches Grantaire's reactions. "He tends to be very enthusiastic and sometimes he'll tie your mind in circles, but he knows almost as much as Feuilly and Combeferre and Enjolras. Despite your understandable reservations about him, Combeferre's also a remarkably good teacher. He and Feuilly were almost inseparable when Feuilly first joined the pack."

Licking at his lips, Grantaire nods. "You don't suggest Enjolras?"

"If you wanted, he's quite knowledgeable and quite capable of teaching. Certainly listen when he's talking to the humans. He's got a way of articulating our ideas and ideals that makes them… _tangible_, that makes them so beautiful and so close…" Sighing, Bossuet shakes himself, his thoughts coming back from somewhere far away. "If you just wanted to learn, I'd say he would be a fine pack-member to talk to. But you're not just trying to learn. You're trying to impress Enjolras. He's the end-goal, isn't he?"

Grantaire hesitates a moment before nodding. There's no point in trying to lie, not now, and he doesn't want to. Not to a pack member. "Yes. I want to make him happy. I want to show him that he made a good decision taking me into the pack."

"He has faith in you. He thinks you'll be a good addition to the pack, a good resource for us, or he wouldn't have accepted you." Bossuet's smile is gentle as his hand rests for a moment on Grantaire's shoulder. "And the rest of us wouldn't have voted for acceptance, either, if we didn't think you had something worth accepting in you."

He doesn't know how to respond. Most of him thinks that it can't be true—that it's _impossible_ for it to be true. He's spent the last eight years being told that he's nothing but a liability, a danger, a stress for the packs that he's attempted to join. How is it possible that these wolves, these amazing, wonderful wolves, led by the greatest alpha Grantaire can imagine, would want him?

It's true, though. There's no way for him to deny that it's true, not when their scent slides from his skin with each movement he makes, not when he slept cradled among them last night, not when he _dreamt_ with them, not when he can feel Enjolras and the rest of the pack tied to his magic.

It's a contradiction that he's going to need time to work through, so he simply nods and presses closer to Bossuet for a moment.

Bossuet's arm slides around his shoulder, pulls him closer to the other male for a few steps. "So are you going to follow me to class, or…?"

"Will I have any idea what's going on?"

"Probably not. That doesn't stop some of my classmates from attending, though." Clapping Grantaire on the back, Bossuet pulls away again. "Or you could simply enjoy your newfound status as pack and wander about the university. Or you could head home. Do you know how to make it to the Musain for the meeting tonight?"

"I know how to get there. I'm never going to forget that place." Grantaire considers what he'd like to do. "How do I get signed up for classes?"

"Due to our… position… as Pack members, I'd suggest talking to Enjolras. He'll talk with Armand, and between the three of you a schedule and payment plan will be worked out." Bossuet tilts his head to the side, considering. "You probably won't be able to start for a few months, not until the new term… but that's fine. We'll be able to get you started studying with our old books, make sure you've got a solid footing."

"I'd like that." Grantaire grins, scanning the other students scurrying around them—currently all humans, that same scent mixture of books and ink and beer and joviality that he had noticed in the café still predominating among them. "As for now, I think I'll let you get to class and I'll just… wander around the university for a little bit. I just want to _move_ right now, to explore, to… to…"

"To show off?" There's a teasing lilt to Bossuet's voice and a knowing glint in his eyes. "To let others scent what's happened to you?"

"Perhaps. Maybe." Grantaire grins, spreading his arms out and spinning. "I'm not sure I even know right now, Bossuet. I just… want to _be_, in this land that you're all familiar with. Being inside a classroom doesn't sound very appealing right now."

"No, it doesn't." Sighing theatrically, Bossuet gives a brief bow. "But some of us have commitments that we shouldn't shirk, not today. I'll see you later tonight, unless you find yourself in need of me or one of the others before then. You should be able to alert any of us to danger through the pack-bonds."

Grantaire pauses, blinking in surprise. "You think they'd still attack me? Even smelling like _him_?"

"I think I'd rather make sure that you know what you can do in case of trouble." Shrugging, Bossuet turns away with a brief wave. "Trouble can always find us, Grantaire, no matter who we're connected to. Enjoy your afternoon."

"You, too." Grantaire waves to Bossuet and then stands still for a moment, his hands buried in his coat pockets, noticing the bite of the winter wind for the first time all day.

The wind whips the scent of the pack around him, though, and the uncertainty that Bossuet's comments had raised fades again.

He's pack.

He's Enjolras'.

He's going to have fun today.

XXX

"You're drinking again."

Grantaire finishes his drink and turns, grinning widely. "Geroux! Slumming with the omega again, your majesty?"

"You're not quite omega. Lambda, if I'm not mistaken." Sliding into a seat at the bar next to him, the female alpha studies him steadily with intent hazel eyes. "I'm surprised to see that he's already acted, though I suppose I shouldn't be. Once he decides to do something, he doesn't hesitate."

"They accepted me." Grantaire can't control his grin as he thrusts his open palm toward the other wolf. Dropping his voice to the faintest whisper, so the humans won't be able to overhear, he tries and fails to keep his hands from trembling. "You can tell, can't you? I'm not a stray anymore. I'm a pack wolf."

"You are. Congratulations, Grantaire." Geroux's fingers briefly cover Grantaire's hand, a firm pressure of the female's hand against his. "My sincerest congratulations to you. Though I am surprised that your response to joy is so similar to your response to fear."

"It's not. I was _really_ drunk when you and the other two scared me out of a decade of my life." Grantaire forces his eyes to drop down to the scarred wooden top of the bar. "This is a celebration. Just a glass or two. Maybe three. I was going to buy a drink for any others who would come talk to me, but so far they seem to be staying away from me. I think because you're all afraid of him, which is silly because I'm not him, and we should talk about that dominoes theory at some point in time."

"If he ever extends an invitation for me to come play dominoes with him, I will most likely accept it." Smiling, a bemused but pleasant expression, Geroux shakes his head and goes to stand again. "Just be careful, Grantaire. Getting yourself accepted into his pack means that you're now part of the most politically volatile situation in all of France. Never forget that. Never allow yourself to forget it. His pack, his people, can't afford mistakes. So have your drink or three, but never do again what you did after I talked with you. Never be a liability for your alpha."

"I'll never hurt him." Grantaire's voice is low and gruff. "I swear, I will never do anything that could hurt him."

"I think you'll try not to." Relaxing slightly, Geroux nods and smiles. "I think it's going to be harder than you expect, because hurt and pain are things that he's currently courting, but I think you'll try."

"He's courting change, not pain. The Lady, not the Night." Grantaire pushes his empty glass away and goes to lift his hand for a refill.

His eyes catch on the way Geroux watches him, expression suddenly sad and hesitant, and he slowly forces his hand back down to the counter.

After a moment Geroux nods. "He's courting the Lady, yes, but all change comes with pain. It's… a part of the price for changing. Our people, out of all people, should know that."

"You think I shouldn't be a part of his pack? You think I'm too dangerous?" Swallowing hard, Grantaire forces his gaze to drop from Geroux's to the female's hands. "You don't agree with what he did?"

"I never said that. I congratulated you, didn't I, Grantaire?" Geroux's hand reaches out and shoves strands of ash brown hair back from Grantaire's face. "I mean what I say. And I wanted to tell you that Armand's watching you. Closely."

Grantaire finds himself freezing, drawing a deep breath through his nose. He can't scent the other male, though. "Why?"

"Because you're happy. Because if it's possible, I'd like to see some of Enjolras' plans succeed. Not all of them, hence why I warned you before when we talked, but some of them. I wanted to make sure you were fully aware of your situation, though I find it hard to imagine he'd accept a new member without telling them exactly what they were getting into." Geroux stands, smiling and flicking a coin onto the bar despite not having bought anything. "If you want to know why Armand's watching you, I don't know. I just thought you should have the warning. When you tell Enjolras that I talked to you, you can tell him that the main reason I approached you was to congratulate you. I don't know if he'll believe me or not, but it's true."

"Thank you." Grantaire smiles, keeping his eyes from meeting the female wolf's hazel gaze directly. He doesn't want to insult or challenge Geroux. "If I hadn't found him, I might have tried—"

"I couldn't, Grantaire." Geroux shakes his head, shrugging nonchalantly. "Being around you for a few minutes is enough to unsettle me. I couldn't make you pack even if I wanted to, not without risking the stability of my pack."

"But he can. They can." Grantaire draws a deep breath, and the scent of the pack is still there, strong and unmistakable, overpowering the scent of alcohol. "And you can be happy for me, for having found them."

Geroux inclines his head just slightly. "Be careful, Grantaire. Be happy, because I like to see our people happy, but be careful, and tell your alpha to be careful as well."

It's all the dismissal Geroux gives before simply walking away.

Grantaire stares at the door to the street for a moment before forcing himself to stand and walk away from the bar.

It's hard. It's so tempting to turn around, to order another drink, to pretend that nothing just happened with Geroux.

But he mustn't. The female warned him that he's being watched. The female warned him that he's being foolish with his drinking.

He needs a chance to clear his head. Lifting his wrist to his nose, he inhales deeply, steeling his resolve and steadying his feet as he forces himself to walk away from the alcohol.

He will not endanger Enjolras' reputation, not less than twenty-four hours after Enjolras accepted him.

He's just starting to smile, pleased with his self-control, when the sound of flesh striking flesh is followed by the low whine of a human-form wolf who is suddenly in pain.

Turning toward the sound of the whimper, Grantaire finds himself baring his teeth.

Who's daring to attack one of the Pack on neutral territory?

And what would Enjolras want Grantaire to do about it?

XXX

Marius reels forward as a fist connects with the back of his neck. His vision wavers, and he finds himself staggering forward and down to one knee despite his every instinct telling him to _run_, to _turn_, to _fight_.

"Look what we found here." The female wolf's voice is a rough purr as he prowls around Marius.

"Why, it smells like a _stray_." The male wolf's voice is contemplative. "A _familiar_ stray, wouldn't you say?"

Lunging forward, Marius tries to make a break to the right. He might be able to fight both of these wolves, but it—

A foot catches him hard in the side as he's trying to get both feet under him and he falls to the icy ground, the breath driven from him in a long, low whine.

The male wolf's fingers tangle in his hair and jerk his head up while he's still trying to draw a full breath. Marius finds himself blinking into the older male's face. The female's fingers close hard on Marius' left wrist, twist his arm up behind his back, making it impossible for him to run without hurting himself.

The female leans closer to him and draws a deep breath. "Definitely a familiar stray. If I remember correctly, we told him that if we ever caught up to him we'd kill him. Is that what you remember?"

"That's what I remember." The male laughs deep in his throat.

Marius finally manages to draw a breath in, tasting the pack-scent of the two wolves holding him. They're members of a pack who drove him away over a month ago—a pack of six adults, if he's reading their scent right.

"And yet here he is, trespassing once more!" The male slides in front of Marius, staring him in the eye with mock dismay.

Marius doesn't submit to the male. The female is higher-ranked than him, but not the male, and neither is alpha of their pack. Staring straight into his eyes, Marius bares his teeth in blatant challenge. "This isn't your territory. This is neutral ground. I've got a right to be here."

"A _right_?" The male wolf laughs low in his throat again. "Did you hear that, Du? The little stray thinks he has _rights_. I think he's been listening to the wrong people."

The female pulls Marius' arm up higher, and another low whine of pain slips from Marius' throat without his intending it to. If the female puts much more pressure on his arm, it's going to break or dislocate, and _then_ he's going to really be in trouble.

"Definitely listening to the wrong people." The female's words are an angry hiss in his ear, far angrier than Marius expected them to be. "Is it Enjolras' pack you've been listening to or the humans? Because we've found that we're not terribly fond of either recently."

"I don't…" Marius swallows another cry of pain and tries to rearrange his feet so that the pressure on his shoulder is less. Every move he makes is matched by the female wolf, though. "I don't know Enjolras. I don't know anything about the humans. I just meant that this is neutral territory and—"

The male's fist connects with his jaw and Marius snarls, blood dripping from his lips as he lunges forward, heedless to the pain that it causes.

The female laughs, his feet tangling with Marius', knocking them both to the ground with the female on top of him.

Dragging Marius' face out of the snow by the hair, the male smiles down, a smile that somehow manages to express absolute hatred. "A brazen stray who's trespassed on our territory without permission and who speaks dangerous words. I think there's only one thing we can really do with him, don't you, Du?"

"Sean…" The female's voice is hesitant for the first time since the confrontation began. "Roughing him up is fine, but—"

"Take a whiff of his scent. There's something wrong with him, even aside from his words. He's a danger, just as surely as Enjolras and his people are a danger. We don't let dangers continue to run around free." Standing in one fluid motion, Sean keeps his eyes fixed on Marius'. "I know I can't order you to, but I'm quite certain that our alpha wouldn't have a problem with us disposing of this little problem."

Marius renews his struggles, knowing that he won't get any quarter from this male, knowing that if he doesn't escape this male intends to kill him.

The female grabs Marius's hair close to the scalp and slams his face down onto the street once, twice, three times, Marius can't keep count, and the world goes red and hazy around the edges.

Eventually the beating stops, but it doesn't matter. He's not capable of moving, the world spinning around him, his vision fractured and fragmented.

As the two wolves haul his aching, semi-conscious body up between them, Marius realizes that he's going to die.

He also knows that there's absolutely nothing he can do about it.

_I'm sorry, Cosette._

He doesn't allow himself to say her name out loud, because he doesn't want them to even consider going after her.

He just hopes that she'll forgive him for not coming back.

XXX

_Help me!_

The words are a panicked demand that Grantaire sends spiraling along his pack-bonds to the others. The two pack wolves have dragged the stray away from the street, into a quiet alleyway where no humans can see them, where no one will interfere with what they're planning on doing. He needs to act soon if he's going to act, but he doesn't know what to do.

Bahorel, Monet, and Combeferre are all close to him, have been getting closer since his first tentative call for assistance and suggestions when he noticed the problem. His sense of them improves as they approach, and he knows that other pack members are coming, too—Enjolras is on his way, and the power he feeds through the pack-bonds makes it easier for Grantaire to read the others. Courfeyrac and Jehan are coming, too, but they're even farther away.

Having Enjolras focused on their conversation should also make it easier for the others to understand him, and Grantaire briefly centers all of his attention on the concept of _stray_, of _blood_, of _danger_.

Bahorel's response is easy to read—eagerness for a fight, eagerness to protect.

Monet is less certain, but still sends a pulse of calm and reassurance toward him.

Combeferre's response is a mixture of a command to act and a command to be still, to gather knowledge, and Grantaire frowns in confusion, his feet pausing.

_Do as you feel you need to._ Enjolras' command is clear, far clearer than anything the others are sending. _We'll discuss when we're able to._

It's all the reassurance Grantaire needs that it's all right to act, and he flings himself at the female wolf without any hesitation.

These wolves are threatening to kill this stray, a young wolf doing no one any harm.

They're threatening to kill this stray partly because they're afraid of Enjolras' pack.

That's not something that Grantaire will allow.

Both the female and the male are smaller than him, and Grantaire's attack throws them into confusion. It's the female who recovers first, rounding on him and delivering a flurry of vicious blows aimed at his head. Grantaire's prepared, though, falling back, waiting for an opening.

An opening that doesn't come, and he finds himself retreating farther as the male joins the female in attacking him. Their magic doesn't touch him, but they aren't depending on it. Though they're more dominant than him, these aren't alpha wolves; they're used to fighting with their fists as well as their magic, and they fight well. They're both older than Grantaire, the male by at least a decade if not two, the female by only a year or two, and it's clear that they've been in fights before.

Grantaire regrets the drinks that he had as the female's fist slides through his guard and connects hard with the side of his throat.

Suddenly gagging, trying not to wretch, feeling his heart beating far too quickly, Grantaire can't do anything to dodge the male's knee connecting with first his stomach and then his groin.

"He took _another_ one." The male's voice is full of furious disdain as he kicks Grantaire in the stomach once more despite his already being down on the ground. "How many does the monster need?"

"He attacked us." The female wolf wipes a bit of blood from his nose, licking his finger contemplatively. "Without any provocation."

"No better than a rabid dog." The male kicks Grantaire hard in the side of the right knee when he tries to stand, and Grantaire can't keep a whimper of pain from escaping. "So why don't we treat him like that? Enjolras won't be able to complain, since his wolf started it."

Kneeling down next to him, the female tilts Grantaire's head up briefly, expression contemplative. "How bad do you think he'll take losing one of his wolves?"

"Don't know." The male's smile is vicious. "But I hope it hurts them bad. Maybe it'll break their pack, and then we won't have to deal with them and their ideas any more."

"We don't break that easily. And you'd find our ideas even harder to kill." Combeferre's voice is strained, his breathing rough and ragged from running, but his eyes are icy calm as he advances on the two wolves. "Now, if you would be kind enough to back away from my subordinate…"

"He attacked me." The female wolf raises his bloody fingers toward Combeferre. "Your pack started this. There's no fighting on neutral territory."

"Stray." Grantaire spits out a mouthful of blood and swallows hard, trying to get his voice to work properly and his feet back under his body. He's pretty sure it's not supposed to be this hard. "They were… planning on killing the stray."

"What stray?" Combeferre's eyes flick around the narrow street, and Grantaire realizes that the stray's gone.

"This stray." Bahorel's voice is cheerful as he rounds the corner at the opposite end of the street, dragging the staggering, bloody male stray behind him. "I'm assuming, at least, because he's the only bleeding wolf I've run into so far. I'm sure we can rectify that quickly."

Snarling, the male and female wolf back toward one side of the alley, the female keeping an eye on Combeferre, the male on Bahorel.

"_Really_, father?" Monet's voice is scathing disappointment. "This is what your pack's come to? Attacking strays on neutral ground?"

_Oh._

Well.

Drawing himself back to his feet, trying not to bend double despite the debilitating ache in his lower body, Grantaire allows his eyes to flick between Monet and the male. He can see the resemblance, now that it's been pointed out to him. That would at least explain part of why this male seems to hate Enjolras' pack.

"We could do this several ways." Combeferre's breathing easier now, and he takes a step toward the two other wolves. "We could let you walk away now, no more blood spilled. Your alpha can talk with Enjolras about what happened. We can even have it brought up for general discussion at the next alpha meeting. Or…"

Bahorel's grin widens, and he drags the stray another few steps closer to the rest of the group in his eagerness.

Combeferre smiles faintly. "We could see who has the stronger pack. I'm sure you've called for assistance. Perhaps they'll get here in time to make this fight not quite so unfair. Or perhaps they won't. Perhaps our compatriots will get here first. What would you like to bet on?"

The male and female are pressed back to back now, keeping their distance from Combeferre and Bahorel, the male's eyes intentionally avoiding Monet.

They don't say anything before they run. They simply snarl, a weak, pointless threat, and disappear.

Sagging down to the ground, Grantaire groans and spits another mouthful of blood out into the snow. He's fairly certain he didn't get into fights this often before he joined Enjolras' pack.

He wouldn't have dared interfere in something like this before joining Enjolras' pack.

Lifting his head, he slits his eyes and stares at the stray as Bahorel hauls him over and drops him in the snow next to Grantaire. The male's face is a mass of blood and rising bruises, his eyes wild and nervous. His scent places him as high-mid-ranked, the type of wolf who would be beta or gamma in most packs. He doesn't have any pack-bonds, though, and he doesn't have a mate-bond…

Or does he?

Grantaire sniffs again, trying to find the elusive scent that's giving him trouble. It's hard, over the scent of his blood and the stray's blood and the stray's fear and nervousness. There isn't a proper mate-bond, but there's a ghost of a scent that flicks and fades around him, a scent that could _almost_ be a mate-bond except that there's no one attached to the other end.

Strange.

Interesting.

Combeferre kneels down in front of the stray, holding out his hand, his expression grave but not threatening. "I'm with Enjolras' pack. These are some of my pack-mates. Can you tell us what happened?"

The stray shrinks away from Combeferre's hand, though he glares a challenge at Combeferre before his instincts drop his eyes to the ground and his head forward on his neck. "They didn't like that I'm a stray. They chased me off their territory last month. Since I didn't learn my lesson…"

Combeferre inclines his head slightly, pulling his hand back to his side when it's clear the stray has no intention of taking the offered limb or even sniffing at him. "Are you looking for a pack, then?"

"No." The stray glares around the small circle of wolves. "I'm not. I was looking for a place to stay, but I don't want a pack. I don't need a pack."

Grantaire winces, pity and sympathy rising in his as he studies the young male. He can't be much more than two decades old. It's too young to give up on finding a pack. "Just because things haven't worked out so far, don't stop looking. Enjolras' pack might…"

Grantaire trails off as both Combeferre and the stray glare at him. What did he…?

Oh. Right. Combeferre had told him before that Enjolras might not be able to hold too many more wolves. He already has eleven in his pack. Making an offer to this stray is probably not a good idea.

As if in answer to his thinking of the man, his pack-bond with Enjolras flares bright and hot again, Enjolras' curiosity and concern burning through his mind.

Grantaire sends a wave of calm and safety back to Enjolras, as well as his sense of Combeferre, icy control with a wild undercurrent.

Grantaire's sense of Enjolras fades, and seconds later Combeferre's head tilts just slightly to the side, his eyes slitting.

Whatever passes between Enjolras and his beta, it seems to set Combeferre more at ease. A slight smile on his face, Combeferre turns back to the stray. "You're hurt. You're bleeding. It's a cold day. Would you like to go with some of our pack to a place where you can get cleaned up? My alpha would like to speak with you before you leave, but unless it's direly urgent he needs a few more hours before he can join us."

The stray considers the question. "How do I know that you're not going to kill me?"

"Because we just saved your life." Combeferre stands, backing away from the stray deliberately. "Because I could kill you now, if I wanted to. And because you're not our prisoner. If you want to leave, you're free to. I would recommend staying and talking to us, though, especially if you've already attracted this much… negative attention from other packs in the area."

Drawing a deep breath, the stray glances between the four members of Enjolras' pack before slowly, reluctantly, nodding.


	20. Part Nineteen: A Stray's Request

**Author's Note:** Thanks again for all the reviews! There is this and one final chapter in this arc, then a slight time-skip to the next arc. Still debating breaking the story up or not. Hope people continue to read and enjoy!

_Part Nineteen: A Stray's Request_

Enjolras is the last one to the Musain.

Pausing as he enters the room, he scans through the pack, taking in their positions and what each passively sends him through their pack-bonds.

Most are busy being fascinated by the stray. The young male stray sits at a table in the center of the room, tense despite the fact that he's smiling as Courfeyrac talks to him. Courfeyrac, Bahorel, Jehan, Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta engage the stray in small talk, and Enjolras can tell that all of them are calm, curious, but unafraid.

Combeferre, Feuilly, Grantaire and Monet sit at a separate table, Combeferre with a book open in front of him. The four of them are the first to raise their heads, Combeferre with a welcoming smile, Grantaire with a nervous grin, Monet with a pensive frown, and Feuilly with a steady stare and a quiescent pack-bond that Enjolras finds hard to read.

Moving to their table, Enjolras settles into a chair. "What have I missed?"

"I saved a stray." Grantaire practically hums with nervous energy as he submits, a desire to be praised mixing with a fear of being reprimanded. "I hope it was all right."

Combeferre covers his eyes with his right hand, clearly exasperated, closing the book that he had been studying with the others. It's one that he and Enjolras had studied thoroughly four, five months ago, and Enjolras wonders briefly why Combeferre is carrying it again.

Trying not to smile, Enjolras nods gravely to Grantaire. "Could you tell me in more detail what happened?"

Monet answers before Grantaire can find words. "It was my birth-pack—my father and the gamma of the pack. They were threatening the stray."

"They said they were going to kill him." Grantaire bares his teeth, anger and disgust sliding along the pack-bond as he thinks back on what he saw. "The stray wasn't doing anything. He said that he had a right to be in neutral territory, which he _does_, and they went crazy. They started saying that he must have been talking to the humans or to our pack, and then they dragged him off and said that they were going to kill him."

"It's likely because of what happened with me." Feuilly's voice is a low, frustrated growl. "They've never forgiven me for being human-born, or for taking Monet with me when I left."

"You didn't take me. I followed you." Monet's hand locks hard around Feuilly's wrist. "And they have no right to be angry at me for choosing a different pack. Maybe if they hadn't been such closed-minded idiots I wouldn't have left."

"You're certain they were going to kill him?" Enjolras glances over at the stray, taking in the bruises on his face, the scratches and split lip.

"I'm certain." Grantaire's certainty is a palpable thing. "It's all right that I saved him, right?"

"Yes. Acting when you see injustice being done is always all right." Offering Grantaire a slight smile, Enjolras turns to Combeferre. "You talked with the wolves who did this?"

"Briefly." Combeferre's eyes study his hands. "They were planning to kill Grantaire, as well, when I got there. They said that he attacked them without provocation. They were hoping that killing one of our pack would break you."

"Ah." Leaning back in his chair, Enjolras considers this new bit of information. That explains the steady pulse of tension he's been getting from Combeferre ever since the altercation, despite Combeferre's repeated assurances that everything's fine. "I suppose it's a clever tactic on their part, a way of attacking me without properly attacking me. I'm also going to make sure that all the packs learn quickly it isn't a tactic they should ever try again."

_Peace, Enjolras._

The sense of calm and security from Combeferre increases until it's all Enjolras can feel, Combeferre's fingers resting atop his. Closing his eyes, Enjolras allows himself to sink into his beta's mental embrace for a moment, comforting them both.

Then he draws a deep breath and turns his gaze to Grantaire. "You had proper provocation. I'll reiterate with the other alphas that neutral territory covers all wolves, stray or pack, and remind them what the price of killing a wolf on neutral territory is."

War. An alpha battle for him, a pack war for his wolves, and he's certain he could win if he had to. They have more wolves, stronger wolves, more determined wolves, and he will always do what is necessary to protect his people from outside threats.

Even if it's something he would much rather never have to do again.

"Their threats against me… actually didn't bother me all that much." Grantaire's head is low, his hands moving nervously along his glass, hesitancy and fear bleeding along their pack-bond. "I'm harder to kill than I look. And Combeferre and the others came when I called. And you wouldn't let me die without a fight, I don't think."

"No. I wouldn't." Stroking stray strands of hair back from Grantaire's eyes, Enjolras smiles at his newest pack member. His fingers are trembling, just slightly, but he can't seem to make them stop.

This is bad timing. There's still too much magic running through his veins, too many instincts trying to drown his reason and his intellect. Usually using his magic leaves him exhausted, drained, but taking another pack member is different. Perhaps it's because he's using the other's magic as much as his own when he manipulates the pack-bonds, but he always feels… too bright, too strong, too… _everything_ after adding to the pack. It was part of why he had been so determined to return to normalcy—that and the fact that having the pack distracted for the last few days has meant their human contacts were beginning to wonder if there was trouble.

Worrying about timing will do nothing to change it, though. Touching Grantaire's shoulder, he sends the submissive wolf a sense of calm and approval. "Has the stray said what he wants?"

"A den." It's Combeferre who answers. "He says that he doesn't want a pack. He's not even interested in talking with us. He says that he just wants a den, a safe place to stay, and if possible access to the university."

Tilting his head, Enjolras frowns. "He's certain he doesn't want a pack?"

"Very certain." Courfeyrac's arm is around Enjolras' shoulders before Enjolras is even aware that his gamma has left the stray's table. "He is quite the interesting little conundrum. He seems sane enough, though rather shy, but there's something… off about him."

"He's got a weird scent." Grantaire draws a deep breath, joy passively flooding his mind and spreading out to the pack as he scents their pack-bonds. "He doesn't smell like a pack or other wolves at all, but it's like he… almost does?"

Enjolras lifts an eyebrow and turns to Courfeyrac.

"He doesn't smell like wolves. The strongest smell on him is a human female. And his scent… a mate-bond is supposed to be a combination of your scent and the one or ones you're bonded to. It's a very… distinctive smell. And he doesn't have one, but every once in a while… it's like his magic is trying to form one. I don't know. You'll have to sit and listen to him and smell him yourself, Enjolras."

Enjolras' eyes close again, his mind following the bright flame of Courfeyrac's eager energy through the contact Courfeyrac has with his arm. "Or you could give me the memory."

Courfeyrac hesitates a moment before nodding, resting his chin against Enjolras' shoulder. "Or I could give you the memory."

It's different than taking votes from the pack, though similar in a lot of ways. Instead of opening himself, letting their thoughts all wash through him and then trying to sort through them, he focuses on Courfeyrac. He touches only Courfeyrac's pack-bond to him, and he waits for Courfeyrac to be ready, to call up the memory, before submersing himself entirely in the sensations that Courfeyrac remembers.

It's when he's talking with Marius about what he wants to do. It's always when Marius is considering the future, the immediate past, when he's being quiet about something that is desperately, direly important to him. It's a shift in Marius' scent, in his magic, a stretching and a reaching for something that Courfeyrac can't name. It's a heightening of the human-scent around him, though that doesn't make any sense.

It's an oddity, a strangeness that Courfeyrac has no name for, but it doesn't seem dangerous.

"Interesting." Speaking helps Enjolras to focus again on his own body, his own mind. Combeferre helps, too, a steady, patient presence eager to have him back, uncertain that doing what he did was wise or necessary. He needs to use his magic, though, to do _something_ with it so it isn't a distraction, and it's always easiest to find his balance between Combeferre and Courfeyrac. "He won't talk about it, I'm assuming?"

"No." Courfeyrac shrugs. "He won't talk about a lot of things. All he'll say is that he's from Gillenmorand's pack originally, that he had a falling-out with the old man, and that he's looking for a den in Paris but not a pack."

"I suppose that leaves us with a very simple question, then." Enjolras studies the stray again, his curiosity piqued. "Do we help him find a den or do we simply let him leave?"

XXX

Marius watches the alpha nervously, trying not to give any offense to the wolves who are still talking with him, knowing that his divided attention is going to be obvious to them anyway.

They shouldn't take any offense from it, though. How could a wolf see an alpha like that and _not_ get distracted?

Enjolras. He should have recognized the name. Maybe if his head hadn't been ringing from the start due to the blow to his neck he would have. There are only a few alphas he hasn't approached, and Enjolras is one of them due to the female's reputation.

The strongest alpha ever seen.

A wolf who intends to change everything, to see their people slaughtered by the humans due to his folly.

A monstrous alpha, a travesty of nature, the only wolf Gillenmorand has ever decreed as a mistake the White Lady made.

And yet…

Enjolras' wolves saved him. Enjolras' wolves seem content, energetic, well cared for, eager, _happy_, the pack-magic between them strong enough to raise the hairs on Marius' arms whenever two or more of them are near him.

It's confusing, all that he's ever heard about these wolves contradicting all that he sees, and he doesn't like it.

He doesn't know what to _do_ about it.

Finally Courfeyrac returns to him from Enjolras' side, the gamma grinning broadly. "Ready to meet our alpha, Marius?"

"If it's necessary." Marius can't keep the strain from his voice. "I would prefer not to, since I have no intention of asking the pack for anything, but if you really want me to…"

"You want a den, right?" Courfeyrac's hand on his arm is gentle and conciliatory, the female wolf's smile losing some of its bright edge but none of its charm. "We might be able to help you with that."

"What?" Marius straightens, suddenly much more interested in this meeting. "Without my being pack?"

"Just talk with us for a few minutes." Courfeyrac keeps the statement as a request rather than a command, unlike most wolves of his rank. "All right?"

Nodding, Marius stands. "All right."

The whole pack follows them to Enjolras' table, forming a loose circle two-wolves deep in most places. They don't hem Marius in, though, giving him room to back away or even run if he feels the need to.

Submitting to Enjolras, Marius clenches his hands into tight fists, reminding himself again of what he wants. He just wants a den. He just wants a safe place to stay. If it were possible for him to attend university again, that would be nice, but it's not imperative.

All he needs is a safe place to stay so that he can go back to Cosette.

"Marius." Enjolras stands to face him, the female's beta and gamma flanking him. Enjolras' almost exactly the same height as Marius, though much slimmer in build, but his power flows from him and through the rest of the pack and the room in no uncertain terms. This female is alpha, and Marius is not and will never be capable of being his equal. Enjolras' voice is deeper than Marius expects as he continues. "I'm glad that my pack could be of assistance to you today. You spoke correctly when you said that all wolves have a right to walk safely on neutral ground."

"It's a right that doesn't mean much without the strength to back it up." Raising a hand to touch at his split lip, Marius shrugs. "I'm grateful to still be alive, but I'm not interested in being involved with your pack."

Enjolras inclines his head, contemplative. "Do you disagree with our policies that strongly?"

"You want to eliminate alphas." Marius shrugs again. "I don't think you could or that you should. Especially _seeing_ you… it's hypocritical. It's foolish. It's against nature."

"I want all wolves to have a voice, submissive or dominant. I'm not trying to eliminate packs or to claim that all wolves are exactly the same. Is that what some are saying?" Enjolras' eyes narrow, his fingers drumming lightly against his thigh. "We'll all have to speak again with other packs, to help to correct the impression they have of us. As for it being against nature… the humans use that excuse to slaughter us. Who are we to say what nature is for or against? We are capable of thought and restraint and compassion, and we should use all three."

"We're also capable of hatred and violence." Marius touches his split lip again. "I don't want to debate Pack policies and politics with you, though. I thank you and yours, as I said, but unless you know of someplace that I can have a safe den…"

"Just a den? Not a pack?" Enjolras tilts his head slowly to the right, studying Marius. "Could you tell us why you're not interested in a pack?"

Because any pack he joined would try to kill Cosette. Because he's decided that he cares for the human woman more than he cares for any of the wolves who have hounded him, tormented him, laughed at him or his ideas. "I've approached alphas in the area. They don't approve of my ideas."

"All the alphas?" Enjolras keeps it as simply a question, not an accusation.

"Most. I talked with Armand first, and he turned me away." Marius tries not to let his face burn at the memory. The older alpha is on relatively friendly terms with Gillenmorand, had known Marius as a pup, but he hadn't had any patience for Marius when he came looking for a pack. He hadn't seemed to have patience for much, clearly distracted, and Marius had left shortly after he arrived, disheartened and alone. "I've talked with Badeau. That… didn't go well. And I talked with Paquet, but he didn't want me, either. After that… I wandered. I've been chased off of four other territories because I tried to hide on their land without them finding me."

Enjolras inclines his head slightly, accepting the story, not passing any judgment yet. "Aside from me, who else haven't you approached?"

"Uh…" Marius tries to think back on the alphas in Paris. They're one of the things all wolves in the city quickly came to know, though when he was with his grandfather's pack he tended to let the politics of the area simply flow around him without actually engaging them. "Geroux, I think? Another female. Another older pack. One of your neighbors."

"That sounds like Geroux, yes. He's a good alpha." Enjolras smiles, faintly. "I could introduce you to him and intercede on your behalf if you wanted to reconsider trying to find a pack."

Marius shakes his head. "He's not going to want me. I share my father's views on humanity."

"And what would those be?" Enjolras tilts his head to the other side, still curious rather than threatening.

"That wolves should be able to follow human alphas. That wolves should be able to work for a human if they find one worthy. That we should be involved in the human politics, that it is possible to protect our people by ensuring that the best human alpha is placed in charge and remains in charge." Marius finds himself warming to his topic, a smile on his face as he thinks back on his father's expression while the man spoke of his time in the military, leading his pack among humans. "This human idea of a king, of passing alpha power down through a bloodline, it's all wrong. Power can be passed through blood, certainly, but not every alpha throws alpha pups. The strongest, the most charismatic, the smartest, the ones who can bring the most stability and gain to the territory and the pack, that's who should be in charge. And wolves recognize an alpha. Human or not, magic or not, an alpha is an alpha, and we have every right to follow them. We have a _duty_ to follow them, to help them, to make sure that the human pack we live within is strong and well-guarded just as our wolf packs are."

"Well." It's Courfeyrac who breaks the silence, his tone pensive and considering. "At least he said that he doesn't like the monarchy."

Marius glances around the circle of wolves and finds them all watching him, some frowning, some with amused grins, but none with understanding. Pity, perhaps, from the enormous submissive who first saved his life, but no understanding.

Face flushing red, Marius straightens and takes a step back from the table. "As I said, my views are not generally accepted within the pack, though I hope that one day they will be. I expect no assistance from you. If you will allow me to take my leave—"

"You're free to leave any time you wish." Enjolras continues to watch him, a slight frown on the female's face. "But we haven't discussed all of your options yet."

"I will find a den on neutral territory. Hopefully the other packs will leave me alone after… this afternoon." Inclining his head, Marius turns to leave.

"Marius…" Courfeyrac's hand on his shoulder causes him to pause. "We're not angry, Marius. We're simply surprised. It's not often that we find others who have been ostracized for their views, and yours weren't… quite what I was expecting."

For a long moment Marius is silent, debating simply walking out and leaving these strange creatures and their stranger ideas. They keep dangling the possibility of a safe den in front of him, though, and he would really rather not die. "They are my beliefs. I don't intend to change them. The hierarchy is important, and it includes the humans as well as us."

"I assume, from the way you talk, that you're referring to Napoleon?" It's Enjolras' beta, Courfeyrac's mate who asks the question, his arms crossed in front of his chest, his tone cool and controlled and hard to read.

"Yes." Marius swallows, meeting the other male's gaze despite the fact that his eyes want to slip away, to show proper deference to a man who would be alpha in any pack aside from this. "Yes, I am."

"He was a charismatic man and a good military commander." The other male's eyes narrow. What was this male's name? He had introduced himself. Marius should remember his name, but it's hard to think with the man staring at him with such intensity. "He was also a tyrant at home and abroad, crushing dissent, stifling speech, conquering other nations, and for what?"

Marius waits, but eventually it becomes clear that the other male wants him to answer. "For the glory and safety of the pack."

"There is no glory and safety in invading other packs' territories. There is no glory and safety in denying your own pack members a chance to speak, to act, to _learn_." Combeferre's eyes gleam, his teeth showing white as he leans forward. "The only obeisance that is worth anything is that which is given freely, for shared ideals. Any alpha who would try to _take_ it is an alpha not worth following."

"Peace, Combeferre." Enjolras' fingertips glance across his beta's shoulder, but Marius knows more passes through the pack-bonds that he can't sense. It's obvious in the way Combeferre relaxes, the way Courfeyrac follows suit, an easy smile taking the place of the pained grimace that had been on his face. Enjolras' gaze never leaves Marius, though, a considering, calculating stare that Marius can't read. "We have heard your opinions, Marius. Perhaps one day you will be ready to hear ours with an open mind and an open heart as well. We won't press you on it today, though. Today you're simply looking for someplace safe to stay. You don't want to consider joining a pack."

He can't consider joining a pack. Even these mad wolves, who laugh at his politics, would undoubtedly tear the city apart to kill Cosette if they found out how much she knows. "I'm not interested in a pack."

Enjolras nods. "Just because of your politics, or is there something more that keeps it from being an option?"

Marius stays silent. He can't give away a lie if he doesn't tell it. He's been using a similar tactic with Courfeyrac all afternoon, and it seems effective.

"All right, then." Enjolras straightens slightly. "In the past, the pack has considered annexing territory to those in need of safety if they didn't wish to join with us for one reason or another. There would be no pressure on you to join the pack, and you would have the protection of the pack's territory. Is that something that you'd be interested in?"

Marius blinks, trying to make sure he's parsing the words correctly. "You'd give me part of your land? Just like that? Won't it… won't your wolves be angry?"

"We haven't actually had to try it." Enjolras shrugs, an elegant, economical movement. "But I believe our pack will be able to leave you alone, yes. You're not a threat to us. If we find our instincts too difficult, we'll approach you and discuss other options. Is this something that you'd be interested in?"

"Yes." Marius answers without hesitation. If he hesitates, he might think better of it, and he can't afford to. He needs a safe den, and despite their oddities Enjolras' pack is feared and their territory respected by other packs. "So long as you leave me alone and there isn't any pressure to join the pack, then yes, I would very much like that arrangement."

"So long as you present no danger to the pack, we would leave you in peace for as long as you wished." Enjolras' gaze finally slides over to Courfeyrac. "Did you want—"

"You all know how I'm going to vote." Sliding an arm across Marius' shoulders, Courfeyrac guides him toward the door into the Musain proper. "Come and find us when the discussion's over."


	21. Arc One Epilogue: Homecoming

**Author's Note:** End of the arc! There will be a short time-skip into arc two. Thanks to everyone who's stuck with the story so far and who'll be continuing! Also, inverting posting schedule as I try to get back on track with the writing: "Dreamers" will now be posted over the weekend, and this will be posted on Wednesday.

_Arc One Epilogue: Homecoming_

Marius forces himself to wait three days between the time that Enjolras' pack allows him to choose a den on their territory and going to see Cosette again.

He chooses a den on the edge of Enjolras' territory, as close as he can get to Cosette's house. Her house isn't actually in Enjolras' territory, though. It's in Geroux's territory, and Marius tries to keep his shoulders from hunching and his head from dropping down as he crosses over the clearly marked pack line. He's been trespassing everywhere he goes for the last few months. His new status as… whatever he is with Enjolras' pack doesn't change where he needs to go and what he needs to do, though.

Because he _needs_ to see Cosette. It's a burning, desperate hunger in him that he's only been able to control by telling himself that going to see her too quickly will draw attention to her.

Sliding into the garden using his usual route, he lurks, impatient, waiting for her to come out.

He doesn't have long to wait. Before five minutes have passed she slips out the door, jacket and shawl on but askew, as though she dressed hurriedly. Her eyes scan the garden, a look of almost painful hope on her face.

Slipping forward so that she can see him, Marius smiles at the young woman. "Cosette."

"Marius!" She hurries forward, heedless of the snow and ice, and throws her arms around him. "Oh, Marius, you really are here. I don't know why I thought you might be, it was a silly thought, but I decided to come check anyway and here you are! Oh, I've missed you. I thought perhaps something had happened to you, or that you decided you didn't want to associate with me any more, and… oh, but something did happen to you."

Cosette pulls away, her eyes narrowing as her hand reaches up to stroke gently along his face, glancing over the healing scrapes and bruises. Her fingers pause at his split lip, dance across the scab on first his upper and then his lower lip, and he closes his eyes as he happily inhales her scent, tries to memorize the feel of her fingers against him.

"Marius, what happened?" There's surprise and anger in Cosette's voice, but it's a defensive anger, one that his wolf knows isn't directed at them. "Who did this?"

"It doesn't matter." A hand on each of Cosette's hips draws her closer to him, their mixed scent filling the air around Marius with a heady perfume. He still can't decide if she smells more like fall or like spring, like the season of mating or the season of birth, but he loves her scent all the same. "It's healing. In a few days you won't even be able to tell anything happened."

It would heal even faster if he had a pack, his body drawing on the pack-magic to speed his healing, but Marius suspects Cosette won't like hearing that.

"It _does_ matter." Cosette's voice is firm and certain. "Someone hurt you. I want to know who and I want to know why."

"It was a spat with some other wolves—a territory dispute, I suppose." Shrugging, Marius rests his head against Cosette's shoulder, sniffing surreptitiously at her neck as he does. Perhaps she smells more like spring, like new life, new growth. "It was two members of a pack who's driven me away from their territory in the past. They found me on neutral ground. They… didn't want me there."

"But I thought neutral ground was supposed to be safe for you." Cosette pulls back from him, presses him up into a standing position, that same look of disgruntled anger on her face. "Why did they attack you, if it's supposed to be a safe haven for all wolves?"

Marius tilts his head to the side, studying Cosette. How does he describe this in a way that she'll understand—and in a way that won't sound too bestial, won't frighten her? "I'm a stray. I don't have an alpha or a pack to defend me. It's like… I suppose the packs could be seen as countries. Very small countries. They've all agreed to leave each other alone on neutral territory, but I don't belong to any of the countries. If I'm injured, there won't be anyone to get upset about it. None of the packs—countries—involved in the neutral ground agreement will have been injured. Does that make sense?"

"_I'm_ upset about you being hurt." The fingers of Cosette's right hand glance across his lips again, while her left rises almost idly to touch her own mouth. "But… yes. I suppose I understand what you mean. It seems… cruel, though, that they'd attack you just because you don't belong to one of them. Why don't they just leave you be?"

"All the packs are worried right now. The humans keep trying to stir up rebellion, and there's an alpha who's been… changing things." Marius finds himself moving closer to Cosette, pulling her to him as he considers Enjolras and his pack. He still doesn't know what to make of the strange female and his wolves.

He's found himself getting rather fond of Courfeyrac, despite his intentions. The female had helped him to find a place to stay, and there was a sense of friendly joviality about Courfeyrac that Marius found hard to resist.

The stray who saved him, Grantaire, has also been a frequent presence in his life, whether Marius wishes it or not. The male seems to be very determined that Marius not give up on looking for a pack, that Marius consider the political views of Enjolras' pack… though Marius isn't sure that _Grantaire_ understands them all that well from his drunken ramblings.

As for the rest of Enjolras' pack… they've done as Enjolras said they would. They've stayed away, giving Marius time and space to settle into his new lodgings.

"Marius?" Cosette's fingers glide along his cheek, her head resting gently against his shoulder now. "What about the alpha changing things?"

"He and his pack are… different." Marius shrugs, a motion that would shiver his ruff to show his discomfort were he in wolf form. "I don't know how to describe them, Cosette. I'm quite certain I don't understand them. I'm half convinced that they're quite mad, actually. But… they helped me. Some of them saved me when the others were trying to kill me. And they've given me a place to stay and access to the university, so I can begin taking classes and tutoring again."

"Truly? You've got a safe place to stay now?" Cosette's smile is brighter than the sun in the sky. "Ah, I'm so relieved to hear that! Though it's rather cruel of you, don't you think, saying that they might be mad when they've been nothing but kind to you? Unless they did something, as well…"

"No." Shaking his head, Marius allows one of his hands to slide through Cosette's hair, the strands silky-smooth across his fingers. It's strange to feel a human's hair, so much longer than the hair their people tended to grow. "They've been far kinder than most wolves would have been. That doesn't necessarily preclude them being mad. Or does madness always go with cruelty in humans?"

"I… don't think I know enough about madness in people to comment." A bemused smile pulls at the corners of Cosette's mouth. "If they've been letting you stay on their territory, does that mean that you'll possibly become one of their pack?"

"No." Shaking his head, Marius makes his voice as firm and authoritative as he can. "I won't be taking a pack, Cosette. I'm going to stay with you, if you'll have me. I'm going to be human… as human as one of my people can be."

"But…" Cosette purses her lips, her fingers toying with the collar of his shirt. A new shirt, paid for by Courfeyrac when it became clear that getting the blood out of his old one wasn't going to happen, and Marius forces himself not to think of that.

He doesn't want a pack.

He wants Cosette.

Cosette draws in a sharp, startled breath and presses tighter to him. "If you're sure, Marius. Just… don't sacrifice something important for me. Please. I want to see you happy."

Holding Cosette to him, Marius draws in a long, slow breath. "I am quite happy where I am."

Cosette laughs, a soft, breathless sounds, and nuzzles her face against his neck. "I suppose I should tell you how to get to church, then. If we're really going to do this."

"Yes." Marius' voice rumbles in his chest, low, possessive, determined. "You should, because we are going to make this work."

It takes Cosette a good thirty minutes to make sure he knows where the church is. Humans think of the city strangely, in terms of sections and street names rather than pack territories and smells, and it takes them a few minutes to find a common point of reference where they can start. She has no concept of where the pack lines are drawn, of who controls what part of the city, and it's both frightening and enlightening to hear her tell him where to go.

She doesn't understand that she's asking him to trespass.

She doesn't understand, still, that the city is divided for him in ways that it isn't for her.

She _won't_ understand, he decides. He can be clever. He can use neutral trails, the ones that lead to and from the university through every pack's land, and trespass only when he has to, and use the humans to hide his scent as best as possible like he's been doing for the last few months. It should even be easier than usual, because he'll intentionally be going to places that have a great number of humans, trying to blend in with the seething masses of people that attend the church every Sunday.

If he's careful, Bellamy's pack won't find him.

He really hopes they won't find him, because his split lip still hurts and he's a bit afraid that they really will follow up on their threat to kill him if they catch him again.

"Is everything all right, Marius?" Cosette's fingers trail along his cheek again, the touch fire-warm in the cool winter air.

"Yes." Taking her hand in his, Marius tentatively, uncertainly purses his lips and places a kiss on the fine bones of the back of her hand. He's seen humans do this before. It's a part of courting a human.

Cosette blushes furiously, her eyes dropping to the ground, one hand rising to tease at her hair. "Oh… this is so silly. Here I've been pressed to you, closer than I should be, longer than I should have been, and yet it's this… Marius, you really ruin all sense of propriety and perspective that I have. Do you realize that?"

Marius shakes his head, eyes wide with puzzlement. "No. Did I do something wrong? Did you not like that?"

"No. You didn't do anything wrong." Cosette's hand traces his cheekbone again, a blush still fire-bright in her cheeks. "Well, you did look terribly serious and a bit confused when you kissed me, like… like you were trying something very alien to you, which I suppose you are. Do wolves not kiss each other's hands?"

"My people have a very different courting ritual, yes." A courting ritual involving magic, involving scent, involving the seasons in a way that Cosette won't possibly understand. Involving the seasons in a way that might frighten Cosette, being so different from humans, displaying a bit more of his people's bestial side than other parts of their world would, and he doesn't want to frighten her. "I'd like to try your people's rituals, though."

Cosette pulls away from him, straightening and holding her hands demurely in front of her. A smile pulls at the corners of her mouth. "Very well, then. I will very happily be courted by you in a human fashion… so long as you allow me to court you in a… a wolfy fashion in the future."

Marius starts to shake his head in negation and pauses as Cosette's eyes narrow. "We… we'll see, Cosette. It'll be a few months before my people would start courting in earnest, anyway."

Both eyebrows rise, and Cosette tilts her head to the right. "Months…? There's… a specific time for courting among your people?"

"Later, Cosette." Marius can feel his face heating. "We'll talk about my people later. For now, you're going to tell me how I should act on Sunday."

"For starters, I think we should wait until your face has healed completely before you come." Cosette's fingers reach out to trace the split in his lip again. "Father will wonder where these injuries came from and what happened. Not making him suspicious will make our lives easier."

"All right." Marius sighs. "We'll wait, then. I'll come next week rather than this week."

"It doesn't mean we have to go that long without seeing each other, though." Cosette smiles up at him. "I can always teach you what little I know about human courtship while we wait… as well as what I know about our religion, which is significantly more."

Taking her hands in his, Marius smiles fondly down at the human who's changed his world. "Nothing would make me happier, Cosette."

XXX

"Enjolras."

Enjolras pauses mid-step, surprised and startled to hear that voice in this setting. Placing the book he had been scanning carefully in his bag, he turns to face the other alpha.

Gillenmorand is older than him by several decades—an impressive feat for an alpha. He's well-dressed, exceedingly well dressed, and he stands out from the students around him in more ways than one. Enjolras attempts to blend in with the human students, and sometimes succeeds; Gillenmorand doesn't deign to look at the humans, but they give him a wide berth anyway.

They may not be able to scent the other wolves on him—seven adults, two generations' worth of pups—or Gillenmorand's power, but they recognize a dominant predator in their midst.

An angry predator and a frightened predator, things Enjolras knows even before he scents the stress on the other alpha. Gillenmorand usually comes to the university only when he must, for the alpha meetings that occur every three months. It's even rarer for him to take part in the posturing and power-plays inherent in attempting to sneak up on and surprise another alpha.

Enjolras won't allow himself to be intimidated, but he also won't threaten another alpha who's so clearly worried. Not without additional provocation, at least. Giving his head a slight incline, Enjolras meets Gillenmorand's eyes for a handful of seconds before carefully looking away. "Gillenmorand. Is there something I can do for you?"

"You have my grandson." Gillenmorand takes a step forward, a cane he doesn't need held clenched tight in his right hand. "You will return him."

"Ah." Enjolras lets out his breath in a soft sigh. "This is about Marius."

"My grandson." Gillenmorand takes another step forward. "You will _return him_."

Enjolras doesn't back away, simply lowering his voice, hoping to attract less attention from the humans surrounding them. "He isn't mine to return."

"He was last seen in the company of your pack." Gillenmorand narrows his eyes. "Word is that he's staying on your land."

"He has been with some of my pack." Enjolras stays still as Gillenmorand takes another step forward, crowding into his personal space. The wolf inside him wants to snarl, to snap, to shove the older male away, but the instinct is easy enough for him to quell. He has no need to threaten this man; he has no need to fight with him. Doing either won't help his pack or his cause at all. He's glad that a few days have passed since he took Grantaire into the pack, that it _is_ so easy for him to ignore his instincts again. "He is staying on my land. But I haven't taken him into my pack. Smell me; you know it's true."

Gillenmorand draws a deep, frustrated breath, his teeth bared in a half-snarl. Then he lets out the breath and takes a small step back, less confrontational, though not by much. "You're considering taking him into your pack?"

"He hasn't asked for it. He's specifically said that he _doesn't_ wish to be part of my pack, actually." Having Gillenmorand so close to him at least means there isn't much chance of others overhearing any of this conversation.

"But he's staying on your territory." Gillenmorand's eyes narrow. "Why? What's your intention with him?"

Enjolras sighs. While he appreciates that everyone is apparently expecting great intelligence and strategy from him, having all the wolves in Paris assuming that every move he makes is part of some grand scheme is going to get very old very fast. "I have no designs involving Marius. He asked for sanctuary on my pack's land; I granted it. What he does now is not my concern or my doing."

Gillenmorand stares directly at Enjolras for a few seconds, and Enjolras forces himself to take slow, even breaths, to return the gaze without flinching but without doing anything to increase the tension between them. Finally the older wolf looks away, his shoulders slumping just slightly. "I… would be indebted to you if you would return my grandson to me."

There has never been another alpha who offered to place themselves in his debt. Offering debt, purposefully placing yourself in a submissive position to another, isn't something that happens frequently with their people. Licking his lips, Enjolras lowers his voice even more and shakes his head. "It is not for me to return him to you. He is not mine—and even if he were, I would not order him to return to you. I can bring a message to him, see if he would willingly meet with you, but I will not force him to do what he does not wish to do."

"You could evict him from your land." Gillenmorand studies him, intent, lips pressed together in impotent frustration. "How your wolves can stand you giving up a part of their territory—"

"They agreed with me that it does us no harm and him a service." Enjolras' words are cool as he cuts over the male's rant before it can build up more steam. "He was not safe on neutral territory. He had no pack to protect him. He was attacked. My people saved his life."

A low growl rumbles from Gillenmorand's throat, his lips pulling back from his teeth in a vicious snarl. "Who attempted to kill him?"

The fury that rolls off Gillenmorand isn't directed at him. That is why Enjolras can manage to take a deep breath and keep himself from attacking the other man. "Two of Bellamy's wolves were working him over when my people intervened. They had stated that their intention was to kill him."

Hand tightening around the handle of his cane, Gillenmorand draws his wolf back under control with a visible effort and inclines his head. "I am… grateful, if your people truly saved his life. But it doesn't change that you have no right to keep him on your land, without a pack, without a mate."

Keeping his voice gentle, Enjolras lowers his eyes, acknowledging the honor that Gillenmorand does by thanking him. "He is free to come or go as he wishes, as I have said. It currently seems that he wishes to stay, that he has no desire to search for a pack."

Another low growl rolls from Gillenmorand. "If you behaved as a proper alpha and wolf, he would have no choice in the matter."

Enjolras raises both eyebrows. "You wish me to injure him? Perhaps to kill him in defense of my territory, when in truth he is no threat to me or mine?"

Gillenmorand's teeth grind together for a moment and his eyes drop away. "No. I don't want him hurt."

Studying the older wolf once more, Enjolras finds himself intrigued by the elderly male and his grandson. Once pups left the pack, they were usually left to their own devices. Oh, there could be fondness between parents and pups, and sometimes even between packs who frequently exchanged young wolves, but this is something different. "Why does he mean so much to you?"

For a moment Enjolras thinks the old man isn't going to answer him. Then Gillenmorand lowers his head and shrugs. "He is the last of my first mate's bloodline. His mother was dear to me, and he is as well."

Enjolras inclines his head again. "Your feelings do you credit. But Marius is old enough to choose his own pack and his own way."

"Marius is still young… young and foolish and easily confused." There's a fondness to Gillenmorand's words that shines through even when he insults the younger wolf. "When he stormed away from our pack, I let him go. I knew that given time enough he would come to see reason."

"You mean you thought that he would come crawling back to your pack in desperation after long enough wandering Paris alone." Enjolras' tone is cool again as he studies the other wolf. "I will not oust him from my territory simply because you expect it, or because it would make things easier for you."

"You're going to get yourself killed, and all of your pack with you." Gillenmorand's words are blunt, concise, his eyes meeting Enjolras' without flinching. One alpha to another, accusing Enjolras of being a poor alpha, of being unable to protect his people, and Enjolras finds his lips trying to curl into a snarl without his conscious volition. Gillenmorand's voice is cool, his eyes determined as he continues to meet Enjolras' gaze, clearly knowing the insult that he's giving. "I will not allow you to take Marius with you into death and damnation."

Forcing his lips into a human expression of calm again, drawing a slow, deep breath through his nose, Enjolras meets Gillenmorand's eyes evenly. "I don't intend to see my people killed, not if I can help it. I intend to see all our people freed—first the humans from the tyranny of the monarchy, and then, once the humans are capable of understanding and accepting us, the wolves from their terror and hiding."

"You're even more foolish than Marius." Gillenmorand spits out the insult as though it's the worst thing he can think to say. "When the Lady gifted you with power, all he did was ensure that our people will suffer even more than they already are."

"I am sorry that you feel that way." Enjolras speaks calmly. "I hope to someday change your mind, but you will not change mine. I will bring your message to Marius. If he wishes to meet with you, I will ensure that a missive with the time and the place finds its way to you. If he does not wish to meet with you, I will not force him to. Now, I have classes to attend. Good day."

Turning from the other alpha, Enjolras strides away.

He can feel Gillenmorand's eyes on his back for almost a full minute, the weight of the other alpha's regard an almost physical presence. Eventually the sensation stops, though, and Enjolras feels his breath come easier.

He'll do as he said. He'll have Courfeyrac speak with Marius, though he suspects he knows what Marius' answer will be. The strange stray seems determined to put as much distance as possible between himself and the rest of the Pack.

Rubbing at his temple, Enjolras hopes that the pack's relationship with Marius won't make things more complicated than they already are.


	22. Arc Two, Part One: Making an Impression

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the delay on starting arc two! We should be back on schedule now, though, and hopefully people enjoy where this story goes!

_Arc Two, Part One: Making an Impression_

Marius studies himself in the mirror, twisting and turning so that he can get a better view of his clothing. It would be easier if the mirror showed more than a fifth of his body at a time, but given his position he supposes he should be feeling lucky to even _have_ a mirror.

"—and then, once the humans have come to accept each other as equals, they will have less reason to consider us as monsters." Grantaire's voice continues in a steady, half-drunken slur, rising and falling in a cadence that Marius long ago gave up on following. "It's a matter of changing the way they look at the world. They currently consider that all men are born to their station—the king to his, the peasant to his, not much chance of changing it, actually _heresy_ to change it. So when they see us as beasts, they don't question it—we're demons, we're _monsters_, and what do you do with monsters? You kill them. But if they were to change that fundamental view, if they were to… to decide that each man's _choices_ are what controls his destiny, his life, then the fact that we are no more dangerous than any other man will actually have some weight. Except for the fact that it's a lie. We're far more dangerous than any human out there—even me, and I'm kind of a pitiful excuse for a wolf. Ah, I'm not explaining it properly."

Adjusting his cravat so that it hangs slightly less crookedly, Marius lets out a deep breath and turns the mirror so that it scans down his body. His waistcoat is just slightly crooked, as well, and he adjusts the dark blue fabric, grateful that Courfeyrac's taste in clothing seems to run parallel to the humans'.

"I haven't done a very good job, have I, Marius?" Grantaire's voice is a soft, lonely whimper.

Turning to look at the submissive wolf, Marius blinks and tries to remember what Grantaire's been rambling about for the last ten minutes. "What haven't you done a very good job at?"

"Everything." Grantaire's lounging on Marius' bed, a bottle of something that Marius' nose tells him is alcoholic clutched in his right hand, his eyes fixed on his feet. "I'm not explaining this well to you. I haven't been able to really help the others with their work. And I can't seem to keep myself from drinking."

The submissive wolf huffs out a breath that sounds close to a whine, and Marius stares at him in perplexed confusion. Grantaire had seemed boisterous when he arrived, as per usual, gesticulating wildly with the bottle. Marius hadn't paid him much attention, far too focused on getting prepared for his meeting with Cosette's father. Usually if Marius simply let Grantaire sit somewhere and ramble the submissive wolf talked, drank, and eventually left, a strange and confusing footnote that tends to appear at random in Marius' life. Marius isn't used to seeing the large, shaggy wolf look so… despondent. "Ah… I think you were doing a fine job explaining your… topic."

Grantaire raises his eyes to meet Marius' evenly, a sardonic smile on his face. "Do you even know what I was talking about?"

It's all Marius can do not to growl as he raises his head and stiffens his shoulders, his wolf responding to Grantaire's challenge. His wolf's always on edge whenever Enjolras' wolves come around to see him, the reek of such a strong pack driving home to him exactly how insignificant and vulnerable and alone he is, and Grantaire's quirk of never submitting properly doesn't make it any easier. "You were talking about Enjolras' politics, weren't you? About his plan to liberate the wolves by slowly changing the minds of the humans with regards to what is and isn't monstrous, what is and isn't acceptable?"

"I was." Grantaire sighs, lowering his eyes, intentionally submitting, and Marius tries very hard not to read the move as flippant. He knows that Grantaire genuinely tries not to insult and anger him. Usually. "I can never do it justice, though, I know. I try to borrow his words. I try to understand things the way he does—to see the future as bright and clear as he does. But the words get tangled and the ideas ring false and I can't even convince _you_ that I'm right."

"I'm not a test, Grantiare." Marius frowns at the other wolf. "I've told you I'm not interested in your pack or their politics, and I mean it. Failing to convince _me_ isn't any mark of failure."

"You can't mean that." Leaning forward, toward Marius, Grantaire smiles at him. "We both know you can't mean that. No wolf _wants_ to be a stray."

"I am quite content with how my life is right now." Marius swallows, hard, his eyes rising to stare at the top of Grantaire's head. He won't look away from this wolf, show submission to another in his domain, but he can't meet Grantaire's eyes, either.

The words he spoke aren't quite a lie. There are several things he's quite content with in his life at the moment—Cosette, for starters. His studies, for another, and the small income he's been able to acquire via tutoring. His grandfather had always ensured that the pack's pups were well-educated, and it's serving Marius well now.

"I don't know why you're fighting it so strongly. I don't understand." Grantaire shakes his head before taking another drink from his bottle. "Enjolras' pack is amazing."

"So amazing that you can't even properly articulate their strategy or purpose?" Marius turns back to the mirror, adjusting his cravat once more. What had Cosette said about properly greeting her father? He's to bow, he thinks, and thank the man for inviting him into his house. And then… and then…

Grantaire's stare is heavy on Marius' back, his despair an almost palpable presence, a tangy, bitter scent in the air, his silence far worse than any noise that he's ever made.

Sighing, Marius turns and moves to the bed, sitting primly next to the more submissive wolf. He stands again almost immediately—Grantaire has a few inches on him, and he doesn't like having to look up at the man. The Lady had certainly been feeling in an odd humor when he made this wolf. "Come, Grantaire, my lack of an interest in a pack isn't the end of the world."

"I saved your life." Grantaire whispers the words to his bottle, his shoulders hunched.

"You did." Marius nods, competing instincts making it hard for him to decide what to do. On the one hand Grantaire is a large wolf from a strong pack; on the other… on the other he _did_ save Marius' life, and he's a wolf who's more submissive than Marius and clearly distressed. Placing his hand gently on Grantaire's shoulder, Marius smiles at the other male. "I am very grateful for it."

"It's the best thing I've ever done, I think." Grantaire takes another drink, draining the bottle. "It was _me_, just me, and I stopped something that I knew was wrong. I saved you. _Me_. I thought, after that… I thought it would be easy. But it's not easy."

"Things are rarely as simple as one would like." Sympathy grows in Marius, and his hand tightens on Grantaire's shoulder. He had assumed it would be a simple matter of meeting Cosette's father and having the man acknowledge their courtship. He had been very, very wrong about that. It took three weeks and Cosette acting strangely for the old human to finally acquiesce to Marius joining them for an afternoon. "I am happy, though, Grantaire. Surely that's all you can ask of me."

"You are happy." Grantaire peers up at him, the man's eyes half-closed in contemplation. "Which makes no sense to me, but I suppose I make no sense to anyone else. I still think you'll want a pack, though. Eventually, you'll find the one that fits you."

"And you think it should be Enjolras' pack." Marius shakes his head. "I am not going to involve myself in any pack, Grantaire, but especially not yours. His. That one."

"Which means I've failed in explaining things to you properly." A note of good cheer has returned to Grantaire's voice, finally. "But that's all right. I'll keep trying. I'll get the words right eventually. Or, you know, you could come listen to _him_ talk."

"No. I am not getting involved in sedition and conspiracy." Marius gives Grantaire's shoulder a shove before moving back to the mirror. "You and Courfeyrac coming here is fine—it's your territory, after all—but I am not going to involve myself in your human liaisons and affairs, not when they run counter to my own beliefs."

Grantaire tilts his head to one side, almost falling flat onto the bed before he catches himself. "I think, if I understand yours right, it's more that your beliefs and Enjolras' are tangential rather than counter. You both agree the king is a bad idea, and that human-wolf interactions need to be changed. It's just a matter of how."

"The how is rather important, Grantaire." Marius studies his ensemble once more before deciding there's nothing else he can do to make himself look more presentable—or human. "I've enough trouble with Pack politics without buying more trouble from the humans, at least not until there's a potential benefit to me."

Not until or unless it will help him keep Cosette, and he smiles at the mere thought of her.

Grantaire tilts his head to the opposite side, drawing a deep breath through his nose and then leaning toward Marius and sniffing again. "Are you really sure you don't know why you smell funny?"

"Yes, I'm certain." Marius can't keep the exasperation from his tone as he turns back to the submissive.

"Because that weird smell you sometimes have got stronger… and now it's fading again." Grantaire frowns. "Maybe Joly's right. Maybe there is something wrong with you. Maybe that's why you think you don't want a pack."

"There is nothing wrong with me!" Marius covers his eyes with his hands for a moment. He enjoys it when Courfeyrac comes to visit him, though he almost always goes to see Cosette as soon as he can afterward, the ache where a pack should touch his heart and mind almost unbearable. Grantaire, on the other hand…

"Why're you being so fussy about your looks?" Grantaire gestures up and down Marius' body, using the hand that still holds the empty bottle.

"I… uh…" Marius is suddenly very, very glad it isn't Courfeyrac who decided to come visit him. He could never think of an excuse quickly enough to deflect Courfeyrac from this, not when Courfeyrac seems to take pleasure in gleaning every little bit of personal information he can get from Marius—all while making Marius grin and laugh in the process. It's really quite unfair. A drunken Grantaire he should be able to out-think, though.

Maybe.

Possibly.

Perhaps he _will_ have to insist on Enjolras' wolves leaving him alone, despite the fact that he rather looks forward to Courfeyrac's unexpected visits. "I'm going to meet a human. For tutoring. For money, so that I can pay rent on my own and buy a bit to eat."

"Oh?" Grantaire's head slowly tips the other way, one eyebrow rising. "Think you might be getting your instincts crossed, then. You can't form a pack with the humans."

Marius reaches for his coat, keeping his voice cool. "You might want to tell your alpha that."

"He wants us to be on good terms with the humans. He cares about some of them—the ones he's working with, the one who're friends with the pack. But they can't be _pack_. They don't have magic." Grantaire shrugs and stands, as well. "Seems like your magic's desperate enough to resonate with something else that it'll try, though. It's weird. I don't think mine ever did that."

"I think you're not understanding what your nose is telling you." Marius gestures toward the door. "And I also think that I need to leave, so if you wouldn't mind…"

Grantaire doesn't protest, shambling toward the door, a smile on his face again. "I'll get it right one of these times. I'll find the right words to make you understand. Promise."

"I believe you will keep trying." Marius manages not to sigh as he follows the larger male out the door, locking his apartment behind him. "Trying seems to be something you are very good at."

Grantaire doesn't take any offense. If anything, his smile seems to widen. "Enjolras thinks so, too."

Marius makes a non-commital noise in the back of his throat. All of Enjolras' wolves are fiercely loyal, but Grantaire seems positively obsessed, and Marius learned quickly to simply let the strange submissive move on to another topic on his own. Getting into a debate with Grantaire about Enjolras, or Lady forbid making the mistake of agreeing with him, would just ensure Grantaire continued to expound upon the topic until his opponent gave up in defeat or bit him.

At least Marius hopes other people have desired to bite the male to shut him up.

He would feel rather terrible if he's the only one who sometimes wants to hurt someone so submissive and relatively harmless.

He almost starts walking toward Cosette's house before realizing that his cover story will require him to head toward the university. He also needs to shed Grantaire's company before he can safely attempt to cross over into Geroux's territory.

It's going to add extra time to his walk that he hadn't planned for. It might make him late, and he's fairly certain Cosette had told him it would be very rude to be late.

"Don't look so down." Grantaire's hand nudges gently against Marius' lower arm, the submissive's head low and a smile on his face. "I _will_ find you a pack, and I'll make you understand, and then you can take Enjolras' plans to other packs and then it'll be easier for him. Everyone will win! Everyone will be happy." Grantaire tries to take a drink from the empty bottle and then stares down at it, vague frustration showing on his face as he shakes the bottle and then tosses it into the gutter. The bottle shatters, shards bouncing along the paving stones, and both Marius and Grantaire flinch as the sound of splintering glass cuts at their sensitive ears. Grantaire's voice falls to a faint whisper. "It would be nice if everyone could be happy, you know. I don't think it will ever happen, not like Enjolras seems to see, but it would be nice."

Marius doesn't know what to say, so for a moment he says nothing. Has something happened to Grantaire, to leave him so easily upset and out of sorts today? Or was it simply the alcohol, the stench of it almost overpowering the scent of the pack-bonds on the submissive wolf?

Eventually Marius realizes that he will have to speak, though, because Grantaire is following him, a silent, hulking shadow, and he needs to get the man to leave. "I would agree that people being happy is generally a good thing. I also think that you may be happier if you were to go back to your pack."

Grantaire sighs, a sound that seems to be ripped from the depths of his soul. "Suppose so. Can't stay away forever. He's going to be upset, though. Didn't just fail, got drunk, too, and he doesn't like it when we're drunk. Doesn't ever say anything, but you can _feel_ it when he doesn't like something. Hurts. Don't like disappointing him."

Marius blinks, surprised by the softly spoken string of information. It's not hard to determine who the _he_ that Grantaire refers to is, but it _is_ surprising to Marius to hear that there's trouble within Enjolras' pack. Trouble enough to make this submissive want to stay away, and perhaps Gillenormand had been more correct in his thinking on Enjolras' pack than Marius had thought. "Were you… looking for somewhere to stay? Is that why you came to see me, to find somewhere to stay away from your pack?"

"No." Grantaire stares at him as though he's mad. "They're my _pack_. I don't want to stay away."

An exasperated sigh slips from Marius, and his spine itches as a tail that isn't there attempts to twitch back and forth to illustrate his irritation. "But you said—"

"I say a lot of things. I speak a lot, though I don't always say things that are worth listening to." A bright smile slides onto Grantaire's face, but Marius thinks he can see the frustrated sorrow lurking underneath it, now. "Things're just fine with the pack. It's a good pack. You should come listen to them talk about their ideas sometime. But for now, you are going to go teach a human how to human-things and I am going _home_, to our _den_."

The last word is said in a soft exhalation of wonder, and Marius can see the frustration truly disappear for a moment. No matter what else may or may not be true, the submissive wolf does adore the concepts of pack and pack-bonds and seems genuinely awed whenever he discusses them in regard to himself. "Be safe, Grantaire. I'm sure I'll see you again."

Grantaire nods, waving as he trots off toward their den. The shaggy wolf stumbles a few times, and Marius realizes exactly how much more drunk than usual the submissive male is.

Shaking his head, Marius continues toward the university for a few minutes before assuring himself neither Grantaire nor any other of Enjolras' wolves are present and hurrying toward Cosette's house.

He really, really hopes that he isn't late.

XXX

Grantaire keeps his shoulders hunched as he creeps into the pack's den, and not simply because a chill wind has come up again outside. Spring should be coming soon, but not quite yet, and winter's teeth are still quite capable of frightening Grantaire despite a month of being pack, of being assured of food and shelter.

It's early afternoon on a Thursday, and most of the pack is absent, working or at class—or, in Bahorel's case, most likely skipping class. A quick check of his pack-bonds shows Grantaire that only Courfeyrac is present in their den, actually, and Grantaire stands just inside the door, shivering, debating what to do.

He could head to the Musain. The humans in the café know that he's one of Enjolras' chosen, and they treat him kindly, like they do the rest of the pack, an unspoken backing of Enjolras' politics. He could get lunch there—and another drink.

He could curl up here, in his bed or in front of the fire, waiting for the others to get home—and perhaps have a drink.

Or he could go out to one of taverns and bars that he's become quite familiar with, both those near the university and in Enjolras' territory, and continue drinking in the company of humans.

"Grantaire?" Courfeyrac's voice is a sleepy murmur, and he emerges from his room with his clothes only half-on. "Ah, it is you. You're back. When you were gone this morning, Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta were worried, but Enjolras said that you were fine, though the _way_ that he said it left a bit of uncertainty in my mind…" Buttoning his shirt, Courfeyrac yawns, hesitates, and then sniffs the air once more before sighing. "Ah. That would explain both where you've been and why Enjolras was less than ecstatic about it."

Grantaire shrugs, his head dropping from shame even though his instincts still don't work properly with anyone but Enjolras. "I've got a right to drink."

"No one's arguing that point." Courfeyrac comes toward him, envelops him in a fierce, protective embrace. The gamma's hand cups the back of Grantaire's head and keeps him in a submissive position, but Grantaire doesn't mind. He _should_ be submissive.

Especially to _this_ pack, he should be submissive.

"You've a right to drink. It can be a fun experience—a bonding experience, even, especially when we drink a bit with the humans. But you… tend not to stop at a bit." Courfeyrac pats Grantaire's shoulder, the female wolf's eyes drawn together in puzzlement or dismay. "And Enjolras has a right to be unsettled at the way that too much alcohol can affect the pack-bonds—he's the one who maintains them, and it must be very… disconcerting trying to touch a mind that's rather muddled."

"My mind's always muddled, whether I've been drinking or not." Grantaire moves forward so that he can rest his head against Courfeyrac's shoulder. "And we both know it's not just the drinking that he's upset about. I didn't manage to get your pamphlet to the printer's yesterday."

"I know. We all know. We all saw you apologizing last night." Courfeyrac's fingers massage at the base of Grantaire's skull, a gentle, slow, methodical pressure that feels glorious. "It was, perhaps, too soon to ask something that… difficult of you."

"It was taking a paper to a printshop." Grantaire lifts his head, a tangle of frustration and anger making his words thick. "I should have been able to do it."

"No, it was taking a pamphlet that could get you arrested for treason to a print-shop without being seen by any potential spies because the rest of us have made a bit more noise than we intended lately and having anyone locked up with the full moon tomorrow would be a bad idea." Courfeyrac's fingers climb up bit by bit until they scratch gently behind Grantaire's ear in just the right way to make him sigh in contentment and lean into Courfeyrac's hand. "It wasn't a simple task. We debated strongly even bringing it up to you as a potential opportunity."

"Because you thought I'd fail." Grantaire whispers the words, his eyes closed, not wanting to see Courfeyrac's expression. "And I proved you right."

Courfeyrac hesitates for a moment too long. "You weren't caught, at least. The police won't have any reason to take any extra interest in you still."

"Because I _didn't do it_!" The words are a low whine, pathetic, and Grantaire tries to hunch down even more, to make himself even more submissive. "I was worried I was being followed, and I stepped into the tavern for what was supposed to be just a moment, and then the next thing I knew it was dark out and I had won the round of dominoes but the print-shop was closed and I'm sorry. I am trying, I really am trying."

For once Courfeyrac seems at a loss for words, the man's hazel eyes wide and bright, his curly hair still sleep-tousled, and Grantaire needs to know what he's thinking. He needs to know exactly how badly he's broken things in his relationship with the pack, because if even Courfeyrac, cheerful, loving, accepting Courfeyrac is angry with him…

Except he can't seem to make his pack-bonds work properly. He can sense where the others are—or rather where they're not, the fact that only Courfeyrac is close to him—but he can't get anything beyond that. No sense of what Courfeyrac is feeling, no sense of what any of the others are feeling, and what does that mean?

Panic rises in him, sharp and hot. Has Enjolras done something? Has Grantaire been stripped of his place in the pack?

Are they going to throw him out, one more useless old stray?

He will kill himself. He will kill himself before he will be alone like that again.

_Here._

Enjolras' mental embrace is faint, not the crisp, sharp transfer of ideas and images and emotions that Grantaire is used to from his alpha, but he latches onto it anyway. Anything from Enjolras means that there is still hope.

"Ah, Grantaire." Courfeyrac's arms are wrapped tight around him, and the female's teeth nip at his neck in a gesture that is both chastisement and reassurance, because it means he's still _pack_. "I told you, didn't I? Being drunk makes it harder for him to reach us, and for us to reach each other. The more drunk you are, the harder it becomes. Did you really not notice that over the last month?"

"Um…" Grantaire swallows, blinking away tears. "If I did, I don't remember. Probably because I was drunk."

"Like now." Courfeyrac sighs, his hands shifting to grip Grantaire's arms and hold him out at arm's length. "Enjolras would like me to tell you that of course you are still pack, that he wouldn't do anything to any of our pack-bonds without discussing it with us first, and that you and he will have to talk later. Do you understand?"

Grantaire nods, not trusting himself to speak, shame and terrible relief all that he can muster to shove toward the vague sense of Enjolras that he can still just barely feel. There isn't much by way of acknowledgment, and Enjolras' presence fades away as quickly as it had appeared.

"Come on." Courfeyrac tugs on Grantaire's arm. "Come sleep and sober up. I'll stay with you until Bossuet gets home. No more drinking today, my old stray."

"I'm not a stray." Grantaire can feel his face burning with shame, and another pulse of fear cuts through his guts. Perhaps it would be easier if he could smell more than just the sharp tang of alcohol—could smell the pack-bonds on himself, and he lifts his wrist to his nose, draws a deep breath, but even then the scent of the pack is diluted by the scent of spirits. "I'm pack."

"You are. You are and will remain pack, Grantaire." Courfeyrac's arm slides around Grantaire's shoulder, and Courfeyrac begins slowly guiding him to the stairs. "But you still think like a stray. You still fear like a stray. You still _react_ like a stray, and we're going to have to find a way to fix that."

"You might find me hard to fix." Grantaire leans into Courfeyrac's touch, relishing the feel of the female's arm around his shoulder, relishing the reminder that he isn't alone, that he is pack now. He shouldn't need it. He shouldn't be so useless still. He's _pack_. He has all he ever dreamed of having, so why is he still so… so… "Broken. I'm apparently rather broken, even aside from my… deficiency."

"It takes time to learn fear and doubt." Courfeyrac doesn't loosen his hold as he opens Grantaire's bedroom door. "It will take time to unlearn, as well, but you will. You have the strength to overcome anything. We see it in you, Grantaire. It's part of why we accepted you. And you don't have to do it alone—all you need to do is ask and we will help you in any way we can."

They would try to help him, when he can't do the simplest thing that they ask of him.

He should probably pull himself away from Courfeyrac. He doesn't deserve the female's affection or support. He's a grown wolf, and if he's to be a member of the pack then he needs to be able to take care of himself—to be able to help them with their cause, to be an asset rather than a liability to them.

"Where did you go this morning?" Courfeyrac's words are light, but there's a tenseness to his body as he urges Grantaire down onto the bed. "Did you talk with anyone? Did you talk with any humans or anyone from other packs?"

"No. Well, I played a few games of cards, but it wasn't fun for very long." Curling up on the bed, Grantaire tucks his head under his arm, knowing Courfeyrac will still be able to hear him. "And then I just… wandered our territory. Oh, I stopped by Marius' for a while, tried to talk to him. It didn't work very well. He wasn't paying much attention to me. I think he's going even crazier—his weird scent thing's getting worse. But I didn't say anything to anyone that could be dangerous to the pack."

Courfeyrac relaxes, a rueful chuckle slipping from his mouth as he pats Grantaire's shoulder. "I didn't think you would. I had to ask, though. Now, move over. Otherwise I'm going to be clambering over you in order to fit."

Lifting his head, Grantaire blinks in confusion at the more dominant wolf. "You're staying? Here? With me?"

"Yes." Courfeyrac crawls onto the bed, gathering Grantaire into his arms again. "I know you don't stay in your room often. Maybe if we make it smell more like the rest of the pack you'll feel more comfortable here."

"I don't like being alone." The words are a faint whisper as Grantaire sniffs at Courfeyrac's arm, relishing the mixture of the pack's scents that rolls off the other wolf.

"And you're not. Not ever." Courfeyrac bites gently at the side of Grantaire's neck, and a ghost of the memory of the pack initiation ceremony brings a smile to Grantaire's face.

Maybe someday he'll believe Courfeyrac's words, instinctively, easily.

Maybe someday he'll be worthy of this pack's company and affection.

For now, he'll just try very hard not to think about how angry Enjolras is going to be when they talk later tonight.

XXX

Bellamy sniffs at the wall that he's leaning against, closing his eyes, trusting to his beta to keep any curious humans away. The alpha could have waited until this evening to check on what Sean had told him, but the male wolf had been adamant that the scent was already faint and getting fainter, the area where he found it drenched in the scent of humans. If Bellamy waited until evening, there might not be any scent for him to find.

And if Sean's right about what he's scented, this is something that Bellamy very much wants to know about.

It takes Bellamy over five minutes of slowly, methodically working his way along the church wall to find the scrap of scent that had so excited Sean. He almost misses it. There are too many other scents—_human_ scents, sweat and perfume and food and misery and illness and desire, always in heat and ready to mate, it's disgusting—and it's only his instincts that cause him to halt and re-scent the wall.

There it is. This scent isn't human. This is the scent of one of the Pack, but not someone who has any right to be on Bellamy's land. There aren't any pack-bonds or mate-bonds in the lingering snatches of the stray's scent, but it doesn't matter.

Bellamy doesn't forget the scent of those who trespass on his land, especially not when they then go on to form an alliance with the worst alpha Bellamy has ever had the displeasure of having to associate with.

"Is he right?" Yves, his beta, asks the question quietly as Bellamy opens his eyes and steps away from the wall. "Was the stray here?"

"Yes." Bellamy walks away from the wall as if he hadn't been doing anything strange, and the other female wolf falls in at his side. "The stray was most definitely here."

"Trespassing again." A low growl that is almost more felt than heard escapes from his beta. Bellamy isn't surprised—after what happened to Sean and Duchamp when they tried to kill the stray, the whole pack's been even more on edge than before.

And now the stray is back, once again trespassing in their territory. Bellamy's wolf howls in indignation and rage, desiring nothing more than to track down the stray and teach him proper respect. It might even be possible—this is unprecedented effrontery, the stray coming into Bellamy's territory when the ingrate actually _has_ a territory he's been granted access to.

Which is the only thing keeping Bellamy from giving into the desire to simply hunt down and kill the stray. "The next alpha conclave is in four days."

"Yes." Yves speaks slowly, some of the tension draining from his body. "The first Monday after the full moon."

"You know all the neutral trails?" A smile pulls at the corner of Bellamy's mouth as the prospect of the hunt—not quite the hunt his wolf wants, but a hunt nonetheless—fills his mind.

"We all do." An answering predatory smile grows on Yves face.

"Take Sean with you. Follow all the neutral trails through Enjolras' territories. Sniff out anywhere else that the stray's been trespassing, and anyone who may have been traveling with him." Sean is the best tracker in the pack, but Bellamy knows better than to send him out on his own, especially near Enjolras' pack. Yves, as both a higher-ranked pack member and Sean's mate, will be able to keep him in check, though, even in the event that their traitorous pup turns up and makes things difficult.

"You have a plan." Yves licks his lips.

"The start of one. The specifics will depend on who the stray's wronged and who we can incriminate alongside him, but I think…" Bellamy grins. "I think this may be the first alpha conclave that I will actually enjoy attending."


	23. Arc Two, Part 2: An Awkward Conversation

**Author's Note:** Thanks to everyone who's been reading! I hope you enjoy this next arc as it gets going. All of the notes and well-wishes are appreciated. No real warnings for this chapter. I think everyone even stays fully clothed throughout.

_Part Two: An Awkward Conversation_

"And you had been attending university, but you were forced to take a leave of absence." The words are spoken calmly, but Papa fixes Marius with a fierce stare that makes them seem almost accusatory.

"Father!" Cosette's voice comes out louder than she intended, her face flushing red with frustration as she looks from her father at the head of the table to Marius huddled in his seat across from her. Forcing a smile, she tries to find the sense of calm and peace and control that is always described in books when women are hosting guests. "This is not an interrogation, Father. You could phrase your questions a bit more… gently, don't you think?"

Papa doesn't even look at her, continuing to watch Marius, his expression hard as stone. "It's a simple enough question, Cosette. I'm merely interested in the boy's future."

Cosette sighs, barely resisting the urge push her plate away like a child in order to bury her face in her arms. This hasn't gone anything at all like what she'd intended. She'd thought perhaps it was merely the church setting that made Papa seem brusque and unsympathetic to Marius whenever he approached them. Papa was frequently busy at church, after all, trying to determine who needed what help and what they could offer, and perhaps he didn't like his good deeds being impeded by having to be sociable with someone who seemed relatively well off.

And Marius' hesitation at church could simply be discomfort with being in a temple dedicated to a god he didn't believe in, though she thinks he's starting to come around on that—he's actually seemed interested and eager the last few times he's talked to her about her religion.

Then again, he always seems eager when talking with her.

Which is the exact opposite of how he seems now. Now he cowers in his seat, his head tucked low to his neck, his shoulders hunched forward, his eyes fixed on the ground, and she desperately wants to walk around the table and adjust his posture but knows better than to do so. Why is he acting like this? Why is he sitting like that? Why doesn't he meet her father's eyes, and why does he answer every question in an increasingly softer tone?

"Surely discussing your schooling shouldn't be such a terrible thing, now should it?" Papa's eyes narrow as he speaks, and his fingers are tense around his fork. The small cake that she had insisted he partake in with Marius and her has been cut into crumbling pieces, but she doesn't think he's eaten any of it.

"I ran into some financial difficulties, sir." Marius somehow manages to hunch down even further in his seat. If he bends any closer to the table he's going to have his face sitting in his cake. "It necessitated that I take a leave of absence from classes, but I hope to be able to renew my education shortly."

"Ah." Papa hesitates for a moment, and Cosette has a fleeting thought that he may be softening his outlook on Marius. "And why did you run into financial difficulty? Did you squander your money?"

So much for Papa softening.

"No, sir." Marius' head comes up, his lips drawing back from his teeth briefly in a show of anger.

An almost animalistic show of anger, and Cosette tenses, straightening in her own seat, trying to signal with her eyes that Marius should be careful.

Marius glances at her, his head tilting slightly to the side, and then hunches down again, his eyes fixed sullenly on his plate. "My grandfather and I had a falling out. It meant that I have no allowance, and am left to my own devices to find food, shelter, and education."

"Your grandfather? Not your parents?"

"My parents are both dead, sir." Marius raises his eyes again, and he looks very human this time. Very young and very human, sorrow in the firm set of his mouth, in the way his eyebrows sit, and she very much wants to reach across the table and touch him.

That wouldn't be proper, though. Instead she turns to her father, who looks honestly regretful now. Not as regretful as he could, though, and she allows the sorrow she feels over Marius' situation to bleed into her voice, knowing the effect it will have on him. "See, papa, why I told you not to interrogate him? Now you've caused our guest distress. This isn't what I was hoping for at all when you said that I could host a small party."

"I'm fine, Cosette." Marius half-stands from his seat, expression distressed. "Truly, I've been enjoying myself. It's been a great honor to make your father's acquaintance. And yours."

Marius adds the second part hastily, and Cosette tries not to sigh again as she smiles at him. Subterfuge is clearly not Marius' strong point. Neither is blending into human society, and she needs to get him alone for a few moments, to talk with him about how he's been behaving. That will be easier said than done, though, especially given how closely her father is watching Marius.

Thinking quickly, she looks back to her father, the same smile that had settled Marius back in his seat turned on the older man. "I know what we can do, papa. Why don't we finish our cake and then I can show Marius the garden?"

Her father hesitates, looking between Marius and her with something approaching suspicion. "It's cold, Cosette. I doubt that Marius would like to go out in the cold."

"But it's beautiful!" There's no need to feign emotion with this protest. "Even in the snow, it's beautiful, and I want to show it to him."

"I'm fine going outside, sir." Marius sits up a bit straighter, a smile gracing his features for the first time all afternoon. "If it's all right with you."

"The two of you can't go alone." The look that Papa turns on Marius is half-furious, and Cosette doesn't understand why he seems so determined to hate the man. "I'll come, as well."

"That's fine." Trying not to let her smile fade, Cosette takes another bite of her cake. "It will be fun."

At least it will be a change of pace from the tension around the table, and hopefully there will be a moment for her to talk with Marius.

If there's not, she'll just have to meet him in the garden at night and talk about how to make the next meeting between him and her father less awkward.

She's at least fairly certain there's no way he could make it _more_ awkward than it already is.

XXX

Valjean walks at Cosette's side, between her and Marius, as Cosette gives Marius a tour of the garden.

Marius seems to hang on her every word, a smile on his face as he watches her, and Valjean finds he doesn't like it. Then again, he finds that he doesn't like much about the young man. There's something… off about the way that Marius reacts to things. When they had been interacting at church it had been subtle things, a wariness to Marius' stance, a skittery alertness and awareness of everything around him that had reminded Valjean far too strongly of some of the men he'd shared prison time with. All of his instincts tell him that this is a young man with something to hide.

A young man whose main interest is clearly in Cosette, his eyes following her, his actions having mimicked her when they had been at the table, and Valjean is very nearly certain he would damn himself before allowing anything harmful to come near Cosette.

Though it is hard to imagine this youth being dangerous. He speaks well, as a gentleman would speak, with references that betray his education. His clothes are neat, well-cleaned and well-fitted, though Valjean suspects he has very few of them given how frequently he wears the same outfit. He is polite in his conversation, both to Cosette and to Valjean—deferential, even, in his speech to Valjean.

It doesn't make sense. It won't come together into a proper whole. Why does the educated young aristocrat watch the world around him as though it were filled with enemies? Why does he bow and scrape to Valjean, the picture of a man beaten into submission, when Valjean has seen him stare down others who attempted to approach him at church?

Why is he so fixated on Cosette?

Whatever the reason, whatever the answers to the questions, they all point to one thing. This young man is strange. He is dangerous. Even if there are perfectly mundane reasons for his interest in Cosette, the possibility he brings of questions—questions that Valjean does not wish to, _will not_ answer—is painful to consider.

This youth must not be allowed near Cosette.

"Ah, but that was glorious fun!" Their circuit of the garden done, Cosette leads them back to the door, grinning brightly. Her arm is hooked with Valjean's, but she cranes around him to smile at Marius. "Did you enjoy yourself, Marius?"

"Yes." Marius meets her eyes evenly, something he hasn't done with Valjean since shortly after their first meeting, a gentle smile on his face. "Your garden is beautiful, and I have thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon."

"An afternoon that must, I fear, come to an end." Valjean forces a smile onto his face as he looks at Marius.

Marius drops his head down, his gaze falling to the ground, his shoulders hunching forward. "As you wish, sir. Thank you for allowing me the pleasure of your company, and of your daughter's company."

A brief flicker of guilt flares in Valjean as he studies the boy. What has he done, to instill such fear in the lad? What has happened in Marius' life to make him like this? Whatever has happened to Marius, though, it is not Valjean's fault. "It has been an enlightening afternoon."

"An afternoon we shall have to repeat in the near future." Cosette disengages her arm from his, turning a sullen, hurt look on him. "Perhaps on a day when it is warmer, and everyone is in a better mood. I fear I have failed, somewhat, in my duty as lady of the house."

"How?" Marius' voice is puzzled as he lifts his eyes to study Cosette.

"Never, my dear." Valjean replies at the same time as Marius, turning to fix the boy with a searching look that only causes Marius to drop his head again. "You have done a fine job."

"I have done what I could, given how infrequently we have visitors." A bit of a smile returns to Cosette's face as she studies Marius. "And I do suppose I've managed to make our guest happy. Still, I would much prefer to have everyone present enjoying themselves, and thus I request an encore event. Perhaps tomorrow?"

Marius starts to nod and then shakes his head, his golden-brown hair falling about his head in disarray, something akin to panic spreading over his features. "Tomorrow would not be a good day, unfortunately. Perhaps next week?"

Cosette stares at Marius for a moment before nodding. "Perhaps Sunday. We can come home together after church. That would be fine, right, father?"

Valjean glares at Marius, trying to think of possible reasons for his refusal, finding none of them to his liking.

"Father." Cosette touches his arm. "Please. Allow me this indulgence. How am I ever to properly host parties if I can't entertain even a single guest?"

Valjean sighs, feeling his refusal melt away under the weight of her stare. This is merely a social opportunity to Cosette, a chance to practice fully her skills as a young woman, and it is only his poor luck that has landed them with Marius as her test subject. Perhaps they can find some other young women at church for Cosette to befriend, to give her the opportunity for talk and friendship that she is clearly looking for, and she will forget all about Marius. "As you wish, child. Next Sunday will be just fine."

Marius takes his leave after that, with a grave dignity that doesn't fit with the skittishness that came before, and Valjean and Cosette retire to the library, Cosette to read while Valjean considers, once more, possible ways he can drive Marius away without disheartening Cosette.

He will protect Cosette, from his past and hers, but he will not do it at the cost of her happiness.

XXX

Courfeyrac stays with Grantaire until Bossuet gets home, then hands the slowly-sobering submissive over to him before heading out. Courfeyrac and Enjolras had had a busy night, meeting with a few nervous potential allies who hadn't been willing to wait until after the full moon. They had shown their new friends some of their pamphlets, discussed potential future meetings, tentatively sounded out the availability of weapons and the willingness of their new allies to fight, and eventually parted, long after midnight. Enjolras had decided to attend lectures anyway, despite having perhaps three hours of sleep; Courfeyrac had elected to stay in bed instead. Enjolras has a tendency to take more concise notes than he does, anyway, and will undoubtedly share them if asked. Getting to take care of Grantaire had been an unexpected bonus to staying home, but Courfeyrac's glad he was here for the submissive, even if he doesn't know what they're going to _do_ about him.

That's a question for another day, though. What Courfeyrac intends to do right now is find the pack's other stray, ensure that Grantaire told him nothing dangerous, and then try to gently enquire as to Marius' preparations for the full moon. Marius had spent the last full moon with the pack, citing a desire to ensure that no one at his lodging-house had reason to become suspicious of him so shortly after he moved in, but has made no overture toward them for _this_ full moon. Hopefully it's simply that Marius is now feeling comfortable in his new den; if, for some strange reason, he instead hasn't approached them because of fear of their pack, Courfeyrac intends to disabuse him of that notion quickly.

Courfeyrac finds Marius in his rooms. The male wolf calls out for Courfeyrac to enter, and Courfeyrac does to find Marius sitting on his bed, a book open before him, frowning at it intently.

Smiling, closing the door behind him, Courfeyrac crosses to Marius' side and perches next to him. The book is a piece of fiction, perhaps ten years old, not well-respected but endlessly entertaining in its depiction of human courtship. Courfeyrac grins, barely resisting the urge to lean his head against Marius. If Marius were pack, he would, but the stray tends to get uncomfortable if Courfeyrac acts too familiarly toward him, Marius' instincts undoubtedly telling him that the pack is dangerous even if his reason tells him that Courfeyrac wouldn't hurt him. Ah, the difficulties of being a stray. "You seem confused."

"I am confused." Marius closes the book with a sigh and sets it aside. "It seems to be my natural state of being around humans."

Tilting his head to the side, Courfeyrac props his head on his fists and studies Marius. "Having a bit of trouble with one of your pupils?"

"Just…" Marius flushes slightly. "Just having trouble with _humans_. They're so strange! I did well enough when I was living as a stray before, but I was mainly trying not to draw their attention, to avoid them. Trying to talk with and interact with them on their terms is… frustrating."

"And so you turn to fiction to try to give you an idea of how to behave. That is creative and adaptive of you." Courfeyrac raises his head and lowers his hands to his lap. "But I've found that the best way to learn to interact with humans is to simply interact with them."

"That… hasn't gone as well as I had hoped." Misery fills Marius' voice, and if he were in his fur his ears would be pulled back and his tail hanging low. "Why would a human not like me, Courfeyrac? What do I do that would frighten one or make me seem… undesirable?"

"I suppose it depends on the human in question." Shrugging, Courfeyrac reaches out to pat Marius' shoulder. "Some humans simply won't like you because your personalities are incompatible, just like you won't like some wolves you meet. Others… ah, it really depends. What situation are we talking about, Marius?"

Marius raises his head, his eyes darting to the left, staring past Courfeyrac, showing his status as non-submissive, as non-pack, though if he were pack Courfeyrac would be the more dominant. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to.

Sighing, Courfeyrac pulls his hand back. "You don't have to tell me. I'm not here to police your social life, Marius. I simply meant that if you're having difficulties, the more details you can give me, the better I can help you with whatever your problem is."

"I just… don't understand how you do it. Whenever I see you with humans, you always seem to _fit_. You always seem to belong there, even though you shouldn't." Marius' hands clench into fists for a moment. "It's very… frustrating."

"Yes. You said that before." Standing, Courfeyrac paces the confines of Marius' small lodgings, trying to let the male relax by giving him more space. "I can't tell you how to interact with all humans. I've a different idea. Why don't you accompany me tomorrow? I can take you to meet some of my human friends, and perhaps give you a better idea of what you're doing wrong. In the morning or afternoon, of course, given that it's the full moon. Which had been my initial reason for coming! Do you wish to join us for the full moon again?"

"Ah…" Marius blinks. "If I accompany you in the afternoon, do I have to stay with the pack for the full moon?"

"No." Offering a fond smile to the male, Courfeyrac gives an exasperated shake of his head. "Of course you don't. If you're more comfortable here, then please, stay here. Just so long as you have somewhere safe to Change, I'm happy."

"I'll be safe." Marius' eyes drop slightly as he speaks, making Courfeyrac frown.

"You will be careful, right?" Keeping his voice gentle, Courfeyrac moves forward so that he can touch Marius' shoulder. With humans he can resist touching, if needed, though he's found that most humans actually seem to respond well to physicality if it's presented in the right way; with wolves it's much harder for him to resist touching them.

Marius, thankfully, doesn't seem to mind the touch, leaning into it. A smile touches his face for the first time since Courfeyrac walked into the room. "I will be both safe and careful. I promise you that."

"Good." Courfeyrac settles down next to Marius again. "Then let's plan for tomorrow, and see what fun we can have!"

XXX

"You should talk to him." Combeferre's voice is a quiet whisper, for Enjolras' ears only.

Enjolras can feel his jaw tense as he considers the suggestion. He knows it's true. He's been trying to decide how to approach Grantaire ever since his concentration was broken by the submissive's panic in the early afternoon, and he's no closer to a conclusion now than he was before.

He doesn't understand Grantaire. He thought he did, when Grantaire asked to join the pack. He thought that he saw potential in Grantaire, a potential that simply needed time and a safe environment in which to grow. He still thinks he does, often, but every time he starts hoping that Grantaire will live up to his potential the male does something like he did yesterday.

Grantaire failed in his task. That would have been disappointing but acceptable. The half-drunken apology that followed was embarrassing but, he supposed at the time, understandable, his mind awash in the sorrow and dismay that filled Grantaire's heart.

Grantaire didn't _stop_ then, though. He continued to drink, to rant and ramble until Enjolras had left with Courfeyrac, and he had run off before morning was even properly started. Given the state of their pack-bond in the afternoon, most likely he left to _drink_ again.

Does he not understand what's needed? That can't be it. Enjolras is quite certain that Grantaire is intelligent, and thus he should be intelligent enough to understand that his actions are only compounding the problem.

He can feel Grantaire's eyes on him. The submissive has been with Bossuet, Joly and Musichetta since Enjolras joined the pack in the Musain. Grantaire's drinking again, his voice rising to cut across other conversations, and Enjolras feels his jaw clenching tighter as a part of him tries to consider the drunken rambling as a positive development. Grantaire is talking, at least, ignoring the rules of hierarchy, any submission he would normally intentionally feign lost.

He needs to talk to the male.

He needs to find a way to help Grantaire.

How did one go about helping someone who seemed unwilling to help themself, though? He will not order Grantaire to do anything against his will, not unless the pack's general safety is at risk, and if it comes to that…

If it comes to that, he made a mistake in accepting Grantaire as pack.

He doesn't think he did, but perhaps that's just naïve hope talking.

The decision to remove Grantaire from the pack isn't one he will consider today, though. Today he will simply try, once more, to talk to the submissive about his behavior, because unresolved as the issue is it's a strain on the pack, and putting off talking with Grantaire will only make things worse. Decision made, Enjolras rises from his usual place at Combeferre's table and makes his way to where Grantaire is sitting.

Bossuet, Joly and Musichetta find business elsewhere before he even says anything to them. It seems to take Grantaire a few seconds to realize he's lost his audience, though it shouldn't be a difficult conclusion for him to reach. Especially not since Grantaire's eyes have been focused on Enjolras since Enjolras arrived, meaning there's no possible way he missed Enjolras' approach.

"Alpha." Grantaire raises his glass in toast, a slight, bitter smile on his face. His head dips down, his eyes dropping in perfect submission, and though it shouldn't it makes Enjolras' fur attempt to bristle. "Have you come to chastise me for my failings? I do understand them, you know, and recognize that they are many. So visit your wrath upon me, Themis. I know that you hesitated in granting me a task. You should have trusted to your prophetic vision more. It is that vision which guides the pack, after all, and—"

"Grantaire." Enjolras breaks in quietly, cutting off the increasingly slurred stream of words. "What happened yesterday is done. We discussed it yesterday. It has no bearing on today."

"Ah, but it has every bearing on today! Failure begets failure, though success also has a sad tendency to beget failure. One need only look at history to recognize that. Perhaps it would even be more accurate to say that failure is the default state, with success being a temporary anomaly, a strange phenomenon that the universe quickly rectifies once it is recognized." Grantaire takes another drink, though his hands are shaking already. "It would—"

"It would seem that you are too drunk for this conversation. Again." He can keep the disappointment from his voice, but not from his mind, not from the pack-bond that Grantaire is suddenly scrabbling at with frantic need, and Enjolras watches as Grantaire flinches back, huddling down in his seat.

"I know I've no right to be here. I know I've no right to associate with you and yours." Grantaire's eyes are fixed on the tabletop. "Send me away, Enjolras. Do you think I haven't seen you considering it, felt it through the pack-bonds? I am a nuisance. I am a hazard. So send me away. Correct the mistake that granted me happiness for a short time. Finish—"

"Do you really think me that callous and cruel?" Enjolras reaches across the table, lifts Grantaire's head so that he can meet the submissive wolf's eyes evenly. "If you wish to leave, I will cut the pack-bond in a moment. If you are a danger to the pack, I will do what must be done. If others in the pack wished for you to be gone, I would attempt to mediate, and if no mediation were possible I would put it to a vote. None of these things are true, and yet you attack me with your fears as though they were. Why?"

Grantaire swallows, hard, and shakes his head, pulling away from Enjolras' touch. When Enjolras continues to watch him, the submissive eventually shrugs, hunching down until he's nearly prostrate on the table. "I feel it should be true. I feel your anger, Enjolras, your disappointment, and I would save myself a long slide into suffering and despair. Finish it now."

"You would hang yourself to prevent an execution when you haven't even been arrested yet, let alone tried." Enjolras pulls his hand back to his side, studying the stray, pity and frustration mingling together in his heart, neither an emotion that he should send at the male right now. "Don't you see that you're causing that which you fear? There's no need for this, Grantaire. You are pack. You are accepted. You—"

"I am still defective. I am still the one who won't submit, who gives insult after insult even to his friends. I am still the one who fails to understand you, who hangs on your every word and yet can't find even a glimmer of that shining light in my own oration even when I am trying. I am still the one who drinks, to the point where he can't even feel his pack-mates the way he should." Another bitter smile pulls at Grantaire's mouth, and Enjolras finds himself leaning away as a wave of frustration and despair rolls out from the stray.

The sensations are muddled, pained, incomprehensible thoughts too alcohol-soaked for him to sort through properly, and they swamp his bond with Grantaire. He finds himself reaching for the rest of the pack, instinctively, pulling Combeferre and Courfeyrac's emotions close to him, touching each of his bonds to the others, and he can tell from the silence in the room that everyone noticed.

"I can't even apologize properly." Grantaire turns his face away. "And for that, as well as for everything else, I am sorry, Enjolras."

"You are a member of the pack." Enjolras speaks slowly. This is a part of an alpha's job, mediating between pack members, correcting annoyances, ending quarrels, but it is not a part he has had to do often, and he finds himself sorely out of his depth. Best to start from simple truths, then, and work his way out to a conclusion from there. "Do you still wish to be a part of this pack?"

Grantaire hesitates, and for a moment Enjolras considers that the male might say no. Then he raises his head, just the faintest hint of subversiveness in his smile, and raises his glass in toast. "Yes. I will stay until such time as I am told to leave."

"And you still hold to your oaths?" Enjolras ignores the addendum to the answer as he ignores the glass. "To give your loyalty to the pack and to our causes?"

"Yes." Grantaire whispers the word, a ghost of the sheer ecstasy that had flooded through him when he became pack brushing Enjolras' mind, and pity quickly eclipses all other emotions.

The world is broken. Broken worlds produced broken people, but there is still a light struggling to burn in Grantaire's heart, and it is not something that Enjolras will give up on so easily. "I will not tell you to leave, Grantaire, unless you are a danger to the pack. You fit in well with us, when you allow it. We are all fond of you. There are things that you need to fix. You need to be more reliable. You need to drink less. But these are not problems that necessitate your leaving the pack. And if there is anything we can do to help you, anything at all, simply say the word. The pack protects its own, but we will not force anything upon you."

He thinks, for a moment, that Grantaire intends to ask him for something. Then the male shakes his head before tilting his chin to the side, exposing his neck in intentional submission and trust. "I will do better in the future, Enjolras, I promise."

Enjolras inclines his head slightly in acknowledgment of the gesture, stands, and returns to his place at Combeferre's side.

Combeferre studies him, searchingly, and Enjolras can feel his beta's concern flow along their pack-bond.

"I wasn't wrong." He glances toward Grantaire as he speaks, though he knows there can be no doubt about what he's addressing. "I wasn't wrong, accepting him into the pack."

A gentle smile graces Combeferre's face, and his head comes to rest against Enjolras' shoulder as they turn back to their work. "I haven't said you were, and I doubt that I'll say it in the future."

It's a small thing, but somehow it's a comfort, and Enjolras throws himself back into their work with eager abandon, trying hard not to notice the way Grantaire's eyes continue to bore into him throughout the evening.

XXX

"Well?" Bellamy watches his delta and beta, knowing from the way Sean's grinning and the way Yves' body is taut with tension that they've found something.

"He's trespassed. Oh, he's trespassed many times." Sean practically growls the words despite his human form, and Bellamy can feel the urge to hunt straining at his control. "Into Geroux's territory, mainly. I couldn't follow any of the scents properly, he never just stays on the neutral trails, but he's been there, I can guarantee that much."

"Anyone with him?" Rolling his head on his neck, Bellamy resists the urge to bear his teeth, pushing back the itching desire to _hunt_ that thinking of the stray brings. Perhaps the desire will fade once the full moon has passed; perhaps it won't, and Bellamy will have to put the excess energy to use.

"He travels with Enjolras' gamma on occasion." Yves is the one who answers, the female keeping a hand on Sean's shoulder. "As well as with Enjolras' lambda."

Lambda. Such a ridiculous rank to have, though it fits the strange beast that Enjolras added to his menagerie most recently, and Bellamy finds his lip curling in disdain at the thought of the submissive who doesn't submit. "Do they ever trespass with the stray?"

"Not that I can prove." Sean growls. "Give me time and opportunity to follow the scent-trails, and I'll find where they've done it."

"I don't think they've trespassed." Yves speaks quietly, ignoring the way that Sean growls in frustration. "I think only the stray has. Every time we found his scent crossing from neutral to owned territory, it was alone, _had been_ alone so far as we could tell. I don't think Enjolras knows what the stray's doing."

Bellamy considers the information for a moment before shrugging. "It doesn't matter. He granted the stray leave to stay on his land; he's responsible for the stray and his crimes."

"But will the other alphas see it that way?" Yves continues to stroke Sean's hair, the female calming his mate through physical comfort as much as possible. "If you intend to force a vote that Enjolras won't like, then you need to be certain of your allies."

"I don't intend to leave the matter just to a vote, though I suspect I'd have more support than normal. Geroux will be as displeased as I am about having his territory boundaries blatantly ignored. Enjolras' usual base will be fragmented. Still, best not to leave things solely up to politics. They're so… messy. So _human_." Bellamy begins to pace back and forth across their common room. "The stray's trespassed multiple times. He'll do so again. I want us to be prepared for it."

"He was trespassing at a church." Sean scratches fiercely behind his ear, finally interrupting his rolling growl to offer the suggestion. "Humans tend to go to church on Sunday, right?"

"Sunday…" Bellamy pauses in his pacing. "The scent on the church could have come from Sunday."

Another low growl rolls from Sean.

"Will Enjolras care if we attack the stray?" Yves tilts his head down, properly submissive, though Bellamy can feel the urge to hunt building in the entire pack, even the three who aren't currently in their common room.

"He offered the stray shelter. We'll be making him look bad, making his word unreliable." Rubbing his chin fiercely against Yves' shoulder, Sean glances up at Bellamy. "Unless you've a better plan?"

Bellamy considers before smiling. "Perhaps. It will rely on a bit of luck, but we might be able to use the stray and his transgressions to snag prey that Enjolras won't be able to ignore so easily."


	24. Arc Two, Part Three: Fitting In

**Author's Note:** _First_, sorry for chapters being late again; life. _Second_, warning for casual nudity in this chapter during transformations. _Third_,Barricade Day is coming in a little less than a month. This will be my one-year anniversary of being in the Les Mis fandom! I'd be happy to write short fics for anyone who PMs me with a prompt. _Last_, if I wrote one-shots in this 'verse that won't fit easily into the narrative (like Combeferre and Enjolras' backstory) would others be interested?

_Part Three: Fitting In_

Marius comes to see her in the dark of early morning, an hour or so before light touches the horizon.

She doesn't know how she's aware of his presence. She doesn't know what draws her from sleep to don her coat, slip into her shoes, tread out into the stillness of the garden. It's simply a feeling, a calling, one that she's been experiencing more and more strongly with each clandestine visit he makes, and it's never been wrong.

It isn't wrong this time, either. He bounds out of the shadows into the bright light of the almost-full moon as soon as she closes the door behind her, his arms wrapping around her, pulling her tight to him.

For a moment she sinks into his embrace, relishing the feel of his warmth against her in the chill of the air, breathing in his scent, male and unperfumed and just a faint hint of dog, though that could be her imagination.

Then she pulls back, holds him out at arm's length, stares into his eyes, and lifts one of her eyebrows. "What were you doing this afternoon?"

He stares back at her, expression puzzled. "I was here with you this afternoon. I was meeting your father."

"I know _that_." Cosette waves a hand impatiently, letting Marius' arms go so that she can gesticulate more freely. "But… Marius, the way you acted around Papa was just… strange. You don't act that way around me! Why were you being so quiet and meek and frightened?"

"I was being submissive." Marius frowns, his eyes falling to the ground, his shoulders hunching in that defensive posture she's not used to seeing from him. "He's your father. You clearly defer to him. So do a lot of the other humans. He's a human alpha. I was trying to be respectful."

"It… but…" Cosette finds herself waving her hands in small circles, trying to find a way to explain what she needs to. "People don't _do_ that, Marius."

"Yes, they do." Marius tilts his head to the side, still puzzled. "They incline their head and they lower their eyes and they treat him like an alpha. I did the same."

"No… well, yes, but…" Sighing, Cosette shrugs. "You did it too much, I suppose would be the way to say it. Humans may show some signs of submission, but they're very subtle, Marius. You were practically lying in your cake, you were… _submitting_ so hard."

"He was angry. He didn't like me. He was trying to scare me, with his words and his looks, to make me leave. I was trying to show that I'm not a threat or a challenge to him or his territory, that I want to be a part of his pack—your pack." Marius continues to study the ground, a look of absolute misery on his face. "But human packs are different, aren't they? Human packs are… broken."

"Broken?" Cosette finds her voice heating on the word, and forces herself to speak quietly, to not risk waking anyone else. "Humans don't have packs, for starters, and if you're talking about families then they certainly aren't _broken_."

"Maybe broken isn't the right word, then, but there's something _wrong_ with your packs. I don't understand them. You have enemies within the packs. I was doing reading. I was trying to figure out why he doesn't like me, and it seems like it's _normal_, like that's what human packs _do_." Marius' voice is all quiet intensity, his eyes staring into hers, horror and dismay on his face. "A pack is supposed to be a place of safety, a place of acceptance. There are some bad alphas, yes, some who rule with their teeth or their magic too much, but a self-respecting wolf should get themselves _away_ from that situation. But human packs, you define them by family name, which is fine, but then you fight within them! There are people in the houses of the rich who _aren't pack_, who are less than even the most submissive pack-member and yet are expected to have pack loyalties! Even within the pack, old females turn on younger ones, make them miserable, keep them isolated, and others act as though it were a common thing for mother-in-law to do! Old males try to drive away young ones, to keep them from their daughters as though it were their right to choose their children's mates!"

"But… but it _is_. I mean…" Cosette hesitates, stunned at the outburst from Marius, unsure how to counter all the points he's flung out at her. "I want Papa to approve of our union. I want his blessing—"

"There is a difference between wanting and requiring. I want a pack. I won't have one, because I've chosen you over it. If you wanted to choose me and he continued to disapprove, what would happen?" Marius' chin rises, just slightly. "How would the rest of your world view you?"

"That's not fair." Cosette blinks tears away from her eyes. "Marius, my situation isn't the same as yours. I'm his _child_. I'm his _daughter_."

"And those are different things, child and daughter." Marius' shoulders fall, the fire fading from his eyes. "I've picked out that much, but I still don't even understand _that_. You're angry at me because I don't understand your world, but how can I? How should I understand it, when it's so very different from mine? When it would strive to keep us apart, and for reasons that I can only barely grasp at?"

"It won't keep us apart. And I'm not angry at you." Taking a quick step forward, Cosette pulls Marius into another embrace. For a moment he's stiff in her arms; then he relaxes, his head coming to rest against her shoulder, his mouth nuzzling against her neck.

It's exhilarating. It's intimate. It should make her wary, make her want to pull away from him, make her want to protect her chastity… or at least question her desire not to.

There's nothing sexual about it, though. She knows that as surely as she knows when he's near. He's seeking comfort, attempting to give it, lost and confused and overwhelmed, jittery and energetic, silver fire playing throughout his body, and she shivers against him as she holds him. "I would choose you, Marius. If it cost me my father and my home and my people, I would choose you. How could I offer less, when that's what you're attempting to give up for me?"

"That's… not entirely fair. I was an exile before I met you. My world had rejected me; to ask you to reject a world in which you're happy… it's not the same. I'm sorry, Cosette." Marius murmurs the words against her neck, his posture unchanged, his body fully relaxed against her. "Now is not a good time for me to attempt to be human. I should have thought better of it when the day was decided."

"Why not?" Her eyes rise to the sky, to the moon hanging so large and crystal-white above them. "Because it's close to the full moon?"

"Yes." He shifts, his head rising so his eyes catch and glint with reflected moonlight, a smile on his face. "Very close. This evening all my kind will Change when the moon rises, no matter where we are, no matter what we're doing. I can already feel the energy building. It's a glorious feeling. I wish I could share it with you."

"I think… I understand, at least a little bit. Ah, but I wonder why." She doesn't know how. She doesn't understand why she can feel the crackling of silver-fire in him when she runs her hands against his body, but she can. He offers no explanation to her, only a puzzled frown, and her hand moves to caress his face, gently, tracing over the cheekbones that don't stand out quite so prominently anymore. "The coming full moon makes you even more beautiful than usual. That power is why you didn't want to share a meal with us today?"

Marius nods, licking at his lips in a nervous gesture. "Too many things could go wrong. If he asked me to stay, for some reason… if he pushed me too far, made me too angry or frightened, and I Changed even before the moon pushed me to it… better to stay away from you today, until the Change is over, until the energy is waning again, and then we can try anew to win your father's favor."

"He'll give it. I'm certain he'll give it. Some men might be cruel to their daughters, but not him. I'm quite certain he loves me dearly and only wants to see me safe and happy, and I will not be happy unless I am allowed to be with you." Her hands drop to Marius', clasp his fingers tightly. "He is a strange man, in some ways. I'm not sure he's always that much better than you at understanding people and talking with them, though he does tend to earn their respect. Which he should. He's a good man."

Marius tilts his head to the side, expression still puzzled, but at least it's a charming, winsome puzzlement rather than the dark, despairing air of floundering out of his depth that he had worn before.

"You are both good men." Cosette smiles, delighting in the way that Marius' eyes shine in the moonlight, in the way he studies her as though she holds answers when she isn't even sure of all his questions. "And we will find a way for him to delight in your company as I do. You will find him a fascinating man, Marius."

Perhaps Marius will even be able to pry some of her father's secrets from him, to tell her why her Papa is so close-lipped about their past, about any part of her history or his from before their stay in the convent where she had spent the better part of her childhood.

Marius sighs, a sound dragged from deep in his chest, and smiles. "As long as I haven't broken things too badly, I am quite content to try again until we have done things to your satisfaction."

"You could never break things too badly. You don't have it in you." Grinning herself, feeling as though a bit of that silver fire she feels in every brush of his skin burned within her, she pulls him deeper into the garden. "I would like to practice your greetings and leave-taking again, as well as your posture during various events. I know it must be frustrating, having what your instincts tell you is correct interpreted in the wrong way. We'll try to give you a set of human instincts to fall back on, as well."

"I doubt I will ever properly be able to imitate a human, but I will try to follow your instructions."

She coaches him for the next hour, delighting in the way he responds to her, in the good-natured acceptance with which he listens to all her corrections, the rare bursts of sharp humor that sometimes slide from his mouth and seem to startle him as much as her.

When finally dawn touches the horizon, he leaves, as soundlessly as he had come, and Cosette tries not to be too disappointed as she slips back into the house, reassuring herself that Sunday is only two days away.

XXX

"Many thanks, my dears, for allowing my friend and I the pleasure of your company." Courfeyrac takes the hand of Marie, the woman who has been touching his arm or shoulder as often as she can for the last hour, and kisses it, his mouth turning up in a fond, knowing smile as he does. "As much as it pains me I'm afraid that we must leave you here, though. He has a prior engagement, and I have troublemaking of a different sort to attend to."

"The kind that would make it possible for us to be more involved in your troublemaking?" The other woman who's accompanied them for the afternoon—Sara, that was her name—asks the question with barely-concealed glee.

"You are already as involved in my troublemaking as it is possible to make you." Courfeyrac's smile for Sara is different than the one that he had turned on Marie, more honestly affectionate and open, but without making the one he used on Marie seem fake or fraudulent. "Enjolras and I have appreciated all of the assistance you and yours have been able to offer. So far as our activities go, I've no desire to make you any more of a target than you already are, so I will simply say that we will continue working toward our goal until all people are free, no matter their gender."

Marie gives Sara's shoulder a gentle shove. "Always bringing politics back into it, even when we've been having a delightful little foray completely unrelated to those topics."

"It's hardly my fault alone. Courfeyrac is at his finest-looking and most energetic when espousing upon subjects of law, equality, and decency." Sara smiles at Courfeyrac, a teasing, fond expression.

"Be off with you, then, Courfeyrac." Marie takes Sara's arm. "We'll see you again soon, I'm sure, and if you wish to bring your friend again, we'll be delighted to share his company as well."

"I might very well do that. My ladies, it has been a pleasure."

Courfeyrac waits for a moment, and Marius finds himself fixed by the stares of both women. He opens his mouth, finds himself at a loss for what to say, closes it again, thinks desperately on the lessons Cosette gave him that morning, and eventually murmurs out, "Good afternoon."

Giving a small bow and a tip of his hat, Courfeyrac grabs Marius by the arm and steers him away, grinning widely all the while.

Marius waits until they're far enough away from the women so that they shouldn't notice his actions to sigh and shake his head. "I still don't understand how you do it."

"Clearly." Courfeyrac laughs, but there's no malice in the female wolf's laughter, and Marius finds himself smiling along after a few seconds. "Oh, Marius, my friend, I did not think it was possible for you to be more awkward than you had been when we played cards. I was wrong."

"How could I not be awkward?" Marius continues to smile, feeling no sting from Courfeyrac's words. "There were female humans hanging off of you! What was I supposed to do with them?"

"Talk with them. Engage them in intellectual discourse. Do more than stare pointedly at them as though they were strange and unfathomable creatures from another world." Courfeyrac's mirth fades to a wry smile. "Human women are not so different from human men, Marius. There are a few more rules to follow—be careful not to be seen alone with one, if possible, unless you wish for them to start rumors. Be wary of the reactions of boyfriends and suitors and fathers, because they don't seem to understand that one can have a perfectly innocent conversation with a woman just as one can with a man."

"I am fairly certain there was courtship involved in some of Marie's lines." Marius frowns. "And in some of your responses."

Courfeyrac bursts out laughing again. "Why yes, there was. I'm glad that you noticed. I was afraid we might have been too subtle in our game, that it might not have been entertaining to anyone but her and I. Not that this is a bad thing, I enjoy entertaining myself, but I know that Sara will get endless pleasure out of teasing Marie about it. And I did have a few very good lines in there."

"Courfeyrac." Marius shakes his head, not sure if he's entertained or exasperated or frightened by the other wolf's behavior. "You're willingly playing a courting game with her?"

"Yes. Just as she's willingly playing one with me. It's a game that the humans are very fond of, and one that I've found isn't too difficult to pick up."

"I don't believe you find any part of interacting with them difficult to pick up. You do it like a natural." Marius sighs, then remembers to frown. "It's not exactly fair, though. She doesn't know that she's flirting with another female. And one who's mated, at that. Doesn't Combeferre disapprove of your antics?"

"Combeferre finds my antics quite entertaining to watch. He's even designed challenges and experiments for me on occasion." Courfeyrac's smile disappears entirely for a moment. "I would not hurt my mate or my pack. Combeferre understands me and what I need, what I enjoy, what games I like to play and what they mean; I understand him and what he needs, what bonds are precious to him, what his relationship to me is and what it does and does not mean in relation to his other bonds. I do wish others would stop trying to tell us what we're doing wrong. It's that, more than anything, which causes friction for the three of us."

"I… don't believe you're addressing my point anymore." Studying the other wolf, a now very familiar feeling of puzzlement running through him, Marius tries to determine how they got onto this conversation.

"No. I'm not. I apologize." Giving a sheepish, self-deprecating laugh, Courfeyrac scratches at the hair behind his left ear. "The full moon must be getting to me. I'm jousting at enemies who aren't even present. What had your point been?"

"You're flirting with a human female. Who thinks you're a human male." Marius ticks off points on his fingers. "Humans are always in heat."

"A common misconception. For nine out of twelve months they are much more easily sexually aroused than the rest of us, but they're hardly always in heat." Courfeyrac waves a hand. "Do continue, please."

"Well…" Marius shrugs, his face growing red. "Doesn't that make it… awkward for you? Don't they ever… push for what you can't give them? Come close to finding out your secret?"

"I tend not to let it get that far. I like verbal games. I love dancing—you should come dancing with me next time there's an opportunity, Marius, it's wonderful! So many people and smells and conversations and music, ah, I _do_ love dancing. But I don't let it go beyond where I'm comfortable—where I'm safe." There's a sad edge to Courfeyrac's smile, now. How does the female manage to smile in so many different ways? "There are ways to hide that I lack a penis, at least through clothing, and I have done that before, with some who were getting too bold, but I always cut it off at that point. I will not let any relationship in that vein become too serious. I try to make them aware of that before it will become painful for them, though, before that is their true expectation and not just a game. Being disappointed in love can be a very painful thing for them."

"A very painful thing for any of us." Marius studies his hands, gathering his courage to ask the question that this afternoon has brought time and again to the tip of his tongue. "Have you ever loved one of them? A human? Have you ever considered telling one of them? I mean, before you had a mate."

"Ah, I thought about it. I thought about a lot of things, in my months as a stray. Where did I want to go? Who did I want to be? How many wolves did I want in my pack—I did expect to be an alpha, you know. And there was a human or two… but it's so dangerous, right now. Even giving them knowledge of my true sex could see me discredited by all in human society, cast out if they ever decided to use it against me." Courfeyrac shrugs. "I've never bedded a human. I've a mate I'm quite happy with now, though I've sadly never bedded him, either. Perhaps this year."

It's another thing Marius doesn't understand about this strange pack, how they've gone for years without pups, without a proper mating season. He considers questioning that, but finds his mind still racing over the question of humans. "But would you? If you felt you could trust one of them, felt… felt you belonged with them, would you take a human as a mate?"

Courfeyrac considers the question carefully, a small frown on his face. "I don't know. It would be taboo, clearly. It would put all the rest of the Pack in danger. Do I have the right to make that choice? Would it even be possible to take a human as a mate? They've no magic. How could a mate-bond form with a human? Can a wolf have a mate without a mate-bond? Even those who only take a mate for a season tend to form a bond with them, even if they choose to sever it later. Whatever made you think of such a difficult and fascinating question?"

"Nothing. Just… watching you this afternoon." Marius knows from the way his skin burns that his face is red, but hopefully Courfeyrac will think it merely his usual awkwardness magnified. "You interact with them so easily, so naturally, I thought that perhaps…"

"No. Nothing of that sort. As for interacting with them easily, it's like any other language or skill. You just have to watch them to understand it. Much of the body language is the same or at least similar, though much more subtle than what our people will use with each other." Courfeyrac throws his arm across Marius' shoulders. "You did decently today. With practice, I'm sure you'll be able to interact with the humans as easily as you interact with any wolf."

Marius studies Courfeyrac intently, trying to see if Courfeyrac is teasing him still, but it's impossible to tell. Deciding that it doesn't really matter, that he's enjoyed the day with Courfeyrac, Marius smiles at his friend. "We'll have to do this again, then."

"We shall. Later, though." Courfeyrac tenses and stretches. "Are you ready for this evening?"

"Yes." Marius whispers the word around a lump in his throat. He is prepared for the full moon tonight, furniture in position to barricade his door and his window as soon as he gets home, to keep anyone from entering and himself from exiting during the minute or so that the Change will control his whole being. He's even looking forward to it, in a way—it's impossible not to look forward to it, to feel at least a bit of excitement and anticipatory glee as energy builds in his body, tingles in his fingers, itches in his blood.

At the same time, he knows that he's going to Change and be alone, trapped in his room, without a pack, without Cosette, with only his own thoughts, knowing that any stray sounds might bring his neighbors around with difficult questions. He'll be able to change back within a half hour, but he won't want to, the energy of the moon calling his wolf to the fore again and again until the night is over.

"You are welcome with us any time you wish." Courfeyrac's voice is gentle, conciliatory.

"I know." The last full moon had been a different kind of hell. His wolf had loved it, being somewhere truly secure, truly safe, where he could run and play with others. Except the others had been Pack but not pack, his status as a stray separating him from them, making it so that he couldn't truly participate, so that his instincts warned him to either run or request admission to the pack.

He can't be a part of the pack, though. Even Courfeyrac wouldn't accept Cosette and all she knows; some of the others would surely be actively dangerous to her, and an image of Bahorel with his teeth sunk into Cosette's neck causes a growl to rise in Marius' throat.

"Or not, as you like." Courfeyrac studies him with pensive curiosity, but doesn't say anything more.

Bidding the female wolf goodbye, Marius flees toward his room, intent on keeping himself away from everyone until the full moon has passed.

XXX

Grantaire slinks through the pack's den, his head pounding, his blood itching, the full moon's rise just minutes away.

He's sober again, for the first time in something like thirty-six hours, mostly due to the intervention of Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta. Apparently watching him humiliate himself twice in twenty-four hours in front of their alpha had been enough to make them decide forcibly separating him from alcohol was necessitated.

He appreciates it. He loved the last full moon, loved being such an integral part of the pack, feeling their joy, joining with them as they all embraced their wolves. He wants to be able to share fully in that experience again, to touch his pack-bonds and feel what he should be able to feel from his pack-mates.

The pack gathers in their common room, in front of the smoldering fireplace. They won't need much heat tonight, almost certainly spending most of it in their fur, bedding down together wherever the desire takes them.

Grantaire doesn't meet anyone's gaze as he slinks into the far corner of the room. What's he supposed to say? How's he supposed to apologize again? Perhaps he shouldn't even try, given how poorly every other effort has gone.

He isn't allowed to stay in the corner, though. Bossuet pounces on him as the rest of the pack slowly trickles into the room, grabbing his arm and tugging him toward the rest. "Is it fair to say welcome back, Grantaire?"

"I haven't been gone." Grantaire mutters the words, his head tucked close to his chest, glancing up in quick snatches to study his pack-mates' faces.

"Depends on your definition of gone." Musichetta's head settles on Grantaire's shoulder from behind, and he hunches down as the female wolf embraces him. "You've been almost unreachable over the pack-bonds, at least for those of us who are mere mortals."

"Teasing Enjolras isn't really fair when he isn't here." Joly appears on Grantaire's other side, a bright, happy grin on his face.

"He'll be here shortly enough. Or if he isn't, there will be trouble." The easy way with which Bossuet says it causes Grantaire to relax, his mental lurch to touch his pack-bond with his alpha becoming a gentle probe rather than a desperate search. Enjolras is definitely in the house, close by, focusing intently on something.

"He and Combeferre are trying to finish a bit of work before the moon rises, as per usual." Courfeyrac's voice is cheerful, and he bounds up to them, energy in every move. "They'll be here before the time comes, though."

"I swear, they cut it closer with every moon." Feuilly and Monet wander into the room. There's amusement and fondness in Feuilly's words rather than censure, though. "One of these days he's going to end up Changing at that writing desk and destroying whatever he's working on, and the rest of us will get to say we warned him."

"Warned me about what?" Enjolras smiles as he and Combeferre enter the room.

Feuilly's face reddens, and he stutters out a few syllables that don't actually form an answer.

Monet laughs, hugging his mate tightly, and smiles at his alpha. "We'll tell you that you're wonderful and we love you, especially when you're not being reasonable."

Feuilly turns redder, if possible.

Enjolras' head tilts slightly, in mild perplexity, but it's affection and respect that swamps the pack-bonds. "All right, then. Is everybody ready?"

The pack murmurs general excited assents. Grantaire says nothing, his head tucked, his shoulders rolled forward, making himself as small and invisible as possible, hoping that Enjolras will just ignore him, focus on the wolves gathered around him who actually deserve to be here.

"Today is not a day for being glum—or, rather, tonight." Bahorel's voice rumbles through the air like thunder, resonating in Grantaire's chest as a hand forces his chin up. Not into a dominant position, but into a more passively submissive one, and Grantaire meets the black-haired male's green, green gaze for a moment.

Bahorel smiles, and for a moment Grantaire forgets how to breathe, a jolt of energy running through him, mingling with the fire-sharp sting of the moon's magic in his veins, urging him closer and closer to Changing.

Jehan's hand grabs Bahorel's, pulls it away from Grantaire's face, and the sensation fades away. "Be nice, Bahorel."

Still grinning, Bahorel folds his arms over his chest. "I am being nice. It's spring. It's the full moon. Everyone should enjoy it."

Not him. Not today. Not after everything that's happened.

But it's impossible not to feel the excitement, the rush, the buzz of energy collecting as the full moon edges closer and closer, and Grantaire can't keep from leaning against his pack-mates as all eyes turn to Enjolras.

"No howling." The same command, always the same command, the slight twist to Enjolras' lips that says he hates giving it, and Grantaire shudders as the order plants itself in his mind. "Nothing that will give us away. Otherwise, do as you will."

The pack's answering cry is soft, muted, a chorus of affirmations and suggestions amidst the rustle of clothing being discarded, and Grantaire finds himself swept up in the general tide.

The Change is coming.

He needs to be ready.

He needs to be unbound, free of clothing, able to bask in the moonlight even if it can't actually touch his skin, the pack's den safely separated from the outside world by walls and ceilings and thick curtains. His body knows the moon is there, though, and the power that it calls surges up in strengthening waves from within him.

There is no room for guilt in the energy building around them. There is no room for recriminations or doubts or hesitancies. There is only the pack, the smell of the pack-bonds, the touch of their minds against his, all ready, all waiting, all eager.

The change takes Enjolras first, a sudden violent shuddering of all his limbs, drops him to all fours in an ungainly fashion. Combeferre and Courfeyrac follow shortly, at the same time, Combeferre more graceful as he lowers himself to accommodate his shifting limbs, Courfeyrac grinning and making small, pleased sounds that are vaguely terrifying coming from his half-changed throat. The rest of the pack follows, their magic all drawn forth, drawn out of them, Changing them, and Grantaire settles himself on all fours and waits for his turn to come.

He loves it.

He loves the feel of his magic running wild, running free, turning him as it turns the others. No matter what else may be defective about him, he is still the Lady's creature, Changing to her bidding, and it feels absolutely wonderful.

He shakes his fur out as soon as the Change is finished, opening his mouth in a wide, happy pant, relishing the crisp, clean scents of his pack-mates around him. Who should he play with first? Who should he chase? Bossuet or Joly or Musichetta are always eager to play with him. Bahorel has been energetic and impatient the last few days, speaking often of the turning of the seasons. Probably he would relish a game or two. Jehan is always eager to tousle, though the poet has a bad habit of nipping ears. Feuilly might forgive him faster for his transgressions as a human if he can entertain the red-furred—

A blond form crashes into Grantaire before he knows that Enjolras is even moving, and he finds himself sprawling on his side, his ears pinned flat to his head, his own terror and uncertainty filling his nose.

The alpha had said it was all right if he stayed, but that had been yesterday, in human-skin. Has he done something to ruin that already? Or has the shedding of his human form reminded Enjolras of what he truly is, of the power he wields, of the importance of his decisions, and convinced him that dismissing Grantaire from the pack is the better course of action?

Enjolras' ears are pricked forward, his tail curled over his back, his blue eyes fixed unblinkingly on Grantaire's eyes as he stands over the prone submissive.

Closing his eyes, curving his neck to expose his throat more cleanly, Grantaire pins his tail to his belly and his ears flat on his head. Let Enjolras do what must be done. If the alpha doesn't want him—

Teeth touch his neck, gently, breath warm against his throat, and then a wet nose presses at Grantaire's muzzle. _You are mine._

The words are human, a complete, if simple, thought thrust across the pack bonds. The emotions that follow them are complex, a mixture of human and wolf, and Grantaire opens his eyes in surprise. This is the Lady's time. For Enjolras to hold so tightly to his humanity, even now—

_If you wish it, you are mine._ Enjolras takes a step back, his head falling, his ears twisting back until they half-lay against his skull. _If you don't, I will let you go or kill you._

There is reluctance underlying the words, but also honesty. If Grantaire chooses death, if the others ever think it necessary, he will carry out the execution, no one else, though it will hurt him deeply.

_Yours._ It's hard to hold the human words in his mind, but he will try, for this wolf. _Always yours._

_Then stand._ Enjolras' voice is firm, but not a command.

If he wishes, Grantaire could stay here, stay submissive, stay subservient.

_Stand. Please._ Enjolras' ears press harder against his head.

Scrambling to his feet, Grantaire keeps his front legs half-bent, his head low.

_Face me._ Enjolras' front paws prance, small shuffling movements of excitement and pleasure. The ideas he sends over the pack-bonds become less words, more concepts, images, desires, though still with no compelling power behind them. _Stand with me. Face me._

Raising his head slowly, pricking his ears forward, Grantaire forces himself to meet Enjolras' eyes.

_Mine._ Enjolras bows low, his tail starting to wave, an invitation to play. Power and passion slides along the pack-bonds, Enjolras reaching to pull all the members of the pack together. _Mine, as I am yours._

Enjolras moves to bow low again, and Courfeyrac pounces upon him, breaking the spell that holds Grantaire facing him. Before Grantaire can recover properly Bahorel and Jehan descend upon him, and Grantaire finds himself at the center of a writhing mass of eager, playful, energetic wolves.

There is no more room for doubt or fear, as there is no more room for human words as they dash and tousle and yip and growl and nip at each other. They are a pack. They are strong, unbreakable, and this night is their night.

When the pack finally settles down for the night, Grantaire finds his head resting on Enjolras' front paws. Enjolras studies him for a moment, the alpha's beautiful, piercing blue eyes seeming to peer right through Grantaire to the center of his soul.

Enjolras' tongue slips out, licks gently between Grantaire's eyes. Then Enjolras allows his head to drop down, to rest gently against Grantaire's neck.

Combeferre's weight settles against Grantaire's side a moment later, the beta's warmth a solid presence against both Enjolras and Grantaire. Courfeyrac follows Combeferre, and then Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta are curled against Grantaire's other side. He can't tell where Jehan and Bahorel, Feuilly and Monet slide in, but he can smell them, hear them, _feel_ their contentment over the pack-bonds, and he loses himself in their joy.

The whole pack is here, surrounding him, claiming him, as the light of the moon claimed his body earlier, and Grantaire falls asleep with a strange, uncertain emotion burning bright in his heart.

He thinks, as human thought slowly returns with the setting of the moon, that it might be hope.

Or, even more impossibly, peace.

XXX

Cosette finds herself unable to sleep.

She tosses and turns, her clothes tight and hot against her skin, her thoughts running in circles. After what seems like years but has been barely two hours she rises, pacing the confines of her room, unable to bear being still any longer.

She pauses at the window, throwing it open, basking in the coolness of the late winter air that feels perfect against her skin, in the scent of snow and growing things considering coming back to life, the light of the moon seeming to caress her skin like a living thing.

Is Marius looking up at the moon right now? Is he in his wolf form, his muzzle raised to cry silent love to his goddess?

She cannot bear to be inside anymore. Tossing on clothes and shoes in a haphazard rush, she wastes no time in freeing herself from the confines of the house.

The garden is walled, but the sky is beautiful and open above her, stars and moon shining down, and she finds herself shrugging out of her jacket before she is aware of what she's doing. Spreading her arms out to the side, she tilts her head back, allowing the moonlight to wash over her.

Her blood seems to sing in her veins.

Is this what Marius feels?

What is it like for him, under the bright weight of the full moon? What goes through his mind as his body twists, turns, becomes the beautiful creature that she first saw?

For a moment she can almost feel it, the weight of fur on her arms, the shifting of her bones, and a joyous whimper slips from her mouth.

Then the moment passes, and she is only Cosette, small human Cosette staring up at the sigil of a foreign god, separated from Marius on this night when he is most inhuman.

Shrugging her jacket back on, she retreats to her room, to her bed.

Sleep is still long in coming, and when it does she has strange but not unpleasant dreams of running on four feet and raising her voice in unfettered song to the stars.


	25. Arc Two, Part Four: Trespass

**Author's Note:** Thank you guys again for the support! There shall be a few little one-shots in the 'verse going up for Barricade Day (Combeferre-Enjolras backstory and a bit of Courfeyrac backstory). I'm also still accepting prompts for Barricade Day from anyone who's interested. Hope everyone enjoys the story! **Warning** for blood and violence in this chapter—this is when this section earns its PG-13 rating.

_Part Four: Trespass_

Marius heads toward the human church with a combination of joy and nervousness welling inside him. He'll get to see Cosette again, and that's enough to bring him to the brink of ecstasy; he's going to have to play at being human again, though, and there's more than enough reason there for trepidation. At least the moon isn't playing havoc with him right now, the energy of his people fading with the waning of the silver light in the sky each night.

He barely hesitates when he crosses from Enjolras' land onto Bellamy's, mingling with the throngs of church-goers, his scent diluted and hidden by theirs. There had been near-panic, the first time he did this, a certainty that he was going to be caught, but a month's worth of expeditions has dulled the wariness. If Bellamy's pack was going to notice, if they were going to do something, surely they would have done so by now.

Marius moves with the crowd around him, at a steady pace just slightly slower than his own natural ground-eating trot. He could walk like this for days and not tire. It's a fascinating thing, walking among the humans. Their clothing is so diverse, their scents so strong, their voices so varied. He keeps his back straight, his head up but not raised in defiance, a neutral position. It's a natural position for him to take, anyway, proper for someone of his rank, and Cosette had said that it made him look dashing, a combination of mysterious and romantic.

He smiles, thinking of Cosette. He should have a few minutes to speak with her before church starts, while her father either kneels in prayer or listens to pleas for assistance from some of the other humans in the church.

It's hard for Marius to understand the old human. He is like an alpha, respected, charismatic, trusted in times of trouble, but his pack seems not to know him well. No one that Marius has spoken to can tell him anything about the old man, other than that he is Cosette's father and has been coming to the church for several years. The human alpha's pack also seems _huge_, humans from all over the city coming to ask his assistance.

Strange.

Humans are _strange_, but it's a fascinating, endearing kind of strangeness, and Marius is eager to find a way to fit into it.

He doesn't smell Bellamy's wolf until the male is almost on top of him, the same overwhelming scents that he had thought were shielding him hiding the other wolf from his nose. When he does scent the male, Marius loses a few precious seconds trying to decide between running and standing his ground—and, if he runs, where and how fast.

The male—Sean, that was his name, and Marius can feel phantom pains in his face and chest as he remembers the last time he met this wolf—closes to within two strides of him before Marius increases his speed. He doesn't run. He weaves between the humans, trying to find gaps that will close behind him, trying to slow Bellamy's wolf and increase the distance between them without actually breaking and making himself prey to be chased down.

How did this happen? Where did he make a mistake?

What's going to happen because of it?

He can't take the time to worry about that now. His immediate task, his immediate concern, is to escape. If can get away from Sean—if he can find a way to Cosette—

The second of Bellamy's wolves comes at him from the front and the right, and Marius reacts faster this time, swerving left, towards the edge of the crowded street.

He realizes too late that he's being driven, herded, edged out of the protective cloak of humanity and toward one of the side-streets. He hesitates, torn between running back toward Enjolras' land and turning to confront Bellamy's wolves. Surely they won't simply attack him here, in human form, in the midst of—

He doesn't see the female wolf until his teeth are sunk deep into the meat of Marius' left calf. Surprise dulls the pain, and for one long second he looks down, meeting the bright, intelligent eyes in the furred face.

Then the female clenches his jaw muscles, his teeth meeting through Marius' leg, and rips his head back in one smooth, vicious motion. The wolf swallows, throws back his head, and howls a challenge and a pack-summons to the sky, Marius' blood dripping down the wolf's face in dark red beads.

Marius screams. He can't help it. Pain and terror rip through him, cloud his thinking, because he needs to _run_ because he is on another pack's land but this enemy has taken that ability _away_, and he needs… he needs…

He tries to take a step and his left leg collapses under him, the joint of his ankle twisted at an unnatural angle, his blood pooling in the street. He is dimly aware of people screaming, moving, of hands grabbing at him hap-hazardly, and he shrugs away from all of them.

He needs to run.

He needs to escape.

He needs to heal.

He can feel the Change building in him, a tightness in all his muscles, a heat in the blood spilling down his leg, and he doesn't fight it. A dim part of him says that he should, says that he needs to play human now, but he's _bleeding_ and he's _trespassing_ and they're _here_—

"Don't Change. Don't force me to kill you." The words are a low monotone spoken directly into Marius' ear as arms grab him from both sides, roughly, hauling him to his feet.

There's power in the words, authority, and even though this wolf isn't his alpha Marius finds himself obeying, the power of the Change dropping away from him, leaving him dizzy but somewhat clearer-headed.

He's being supported by Bellamy on his left, the female alpha holding his weight effortlessly. Two of Bellamy's wolves flank them, waving off any humans who reach for him, but there aren't that many now. In the time it's taken him to get his bearings Bellamy has steered them from the crowded thoroughfare down the small side-street that the wolf who maimed Marius had used—Yves, that was his name, Bellamy's beta, and Marius realizes that this whole thing has been orchestrated specifically to put him in this position.

"Help me!" He calls to the closest male human, the one most likely to act, lurching against Bellamy's hands as he does but not breaking the female's hold. "Please, help me, they're going to… they're going to…"

He doesn't know how to finish the sentence, his mind awash with the possibilities of what they might possibly want to do with him, and before he can finish the thought Bellamy's zeta slides up to the human, chattering rapidly about a crazed dog and how they're taking their friend for medical treatment and really it's been a very trying day already—

"Keep calling human attention to you and I'll make it so you can't speak." Bellamy hisses the words into his ear, too softly for any human to possibly pick up. "If you behave, if you do as I say, you'll come through this alive. I give you my word on that. If you make this difficult, I kill you for trespassing, in the most creative way I can think of, and no alpha will be able to intervene. Understand?"

Marius looks around, at the confused, uncertain faces of the humans they pass, at the trail of blood he's leaving behind. None of the human faces are familiar. None will trust him or seek to aid him, and his attempting to involve humans in what is a Pack affair will only cause other wolves to look more poorly on him than they already will for what he's done. Even if he gets away, he's too dizzy from blood-loss and hampered by what Yves did to him to make good on any escape plan.

Relaxing into Bellamy's hold, Marius bites his lip and tries hard to think of another way out of this situation he's gotten himself into.

He still hasn't thought of one when Bellamy's wolves drag him into an empty building, locking the door with chilling finality behind them.

XXX

Cosette bites off a soft scream as all the muscles in her left leg seize up into a rigid ball of agony, panic and fear suddenly flooding through her mind.

She needs to escape.

She needs to run.

She needs—

"Cosette?" Papa's arms are around her, supporting her, helping her to settle into their usual pew, and Cosette forces herself to focus on his face, on his touch, rather than drowning in the emotions suddenly filling her.

After a few seconds she's able to draw a full breath, the strange sense of panic and fear fading away, though her leg continues to throb. Reaching down gingerly, she feels at her skin, but can find no injury or swelling to explain the sudden pain. "I'm sorry, papa. I don't know what came over me. My leg simply started hurting, and—"

"It's all right, child." Her father's hands are gentle as he removes her shoe, his fingers feeling deftly over the bones of her ankle below where the pain originated. "Does this hurt? This?"

"No." Cosette blushes, smiling at the women who are staring at her. "The muscles hurt, but even that's fading. Perhaps… perhaps I twisted it without realizing…"

"Perhaps. I can't find anything wrong with it." Her father releases her foot, and she slides her shoe back on. He continues to frown, studying her. "Do you feel all right otherwise? Do you feel faint? Do you need to go home?"

"I feel… all right." She manages to smile for him, because she doesn't want to go home. Marius should be here at any moment, and—

Marius.

Thinking of him makes the pain in her leg worse, the sense of panic and confinement redoubling, and she draws a sharp breath but refuses to let her smile fall.

Marius.

Has something happened to him?

If so, how does she know it? How does she _feel_ it?

How does she help him?

"Cosette?" Her father's hand brushes over her forehead, rearranging her bangs. "Child, please tell me what's wrong."

"I don't know, papa." It's true, at least. "I think… I think I'm all right, though. And I want to stay for service. We're supposed to meet Marius, remember?"

"Marius." He says the name as though it were a curse, then gentles his voice and his expression at her frown. "You're quite right. We'll wait for Marius. If you feel well enough, we'll stay for mass. If you don't, I'll take you right home and fetch a doctor. We can have Marius over even if you're ill, provided the doctor allows it and Marius himself isn't frightened away."

"Marius wouldn't be frightened. And I'm quite certain I'm not ill." She's more certain the longer she sits here. The panicked sense is gone, and the pain in her leg with it. Even speaking of Marius doesn't bring it back, and she hopes that means that whatever injury he's sustained was negligible.

Her father continues to fuss at her until she demands he attend to those requesting an audience with him, and he goes, reluctantly.

She waits, nervous, impatient, watching for Marius to appear in the door of the church.

XXX

"I'm coming, I'm coming. Please stop pounding on the door, I swear, my head is going to explode at one of those knocks, and that won't be a pleasant sight, there will be blood and bits of bone everywhere and—" Grantaire opens the door, looks around, blinks, and then forces his bleary eyes to focus on the child standing on the doorstep of the pack's den.

The _human_ child, male, his clothing tattered, his skin the kind of grimy that comes from long periods of time without bathing, and Grantaire tilts his head to first one side and then the other, wondering what's going on.

"I've got a letter." The boy stares him straight in the eye, despite Grantaire's height, and though there's a hint of nervousness in his scent there's no fear on the child's face. "For a Monsieur Courfeyrac."

"Oh." Grantaire relaxes. If any of the pack would have letters delivered to the pack den at odd times by human children, it would be Courfeyrac. Most of the pack's business goes through the Musain, their den reserved as a place of safety, but if Courfeyrac trusted someone enough to give them this address than it must be fine. "Unfortunately, he's not here right now. I can give it to him when he comes back."

Grantaire holds his hand out for the letter, but the boy shakes his head, backing away. "They said give it just to him, as soon as possible, said it's urgently important. Do you know where he is?"

Frowning, Grantaire closes his eyes and touches his pack-bonds. They're clear again, open and inviting, the full moon followed by a full day's worth of avoiding alcohol meaning his head's clearer than it's been in a while. Or would be clearer, if not for the infernal pounding of blood in his ears with each beat of his heart. It's easy enough for him to get a general idea of Courfeyrac's location, though, somewhere at the university with Enjolras and Combeferre. Opening his eyes, Grantaire studies the boy once more. "Who's the letter from?"

"Monsieur Marius." The boy continues to watch him with those fierce, unafraid eyes, and Grantaire finds himself smiling.

"Here." Grantaire flips a coin to the boy, who catches it deftly and makes it disappear. "Wait for a moment. Let me grab my jacket and a drink, see if that helps my headache, and I'll take you to Courfeyrac. Agreed?"

"Agreed." The boy grins, settling down on his heels to wait.

Grantaire closes the door, shakes his head, and prepares to spend at least part of his Sunday out among the humans.

XXX

"—there's certainly a time and a place for education and for discussion, it's what we've been doing, but if we don't press forward with action when we have the opportunity then—" A hand touches his shoulder, interrupting his thoughts, and Courfeyrac turns from his meeting with Enjolras, Combeferre and a handful of their human allies to see Grantaire standing behind him, head tucked low in submission.

"Sorry to interrupt. You were making a very lovely speech. There's a boy here with a message for you, Courfeyrac, says it's direly important and that he won't part with it to anyone else." Grantaire scratches roughly behind his right ear, smiling at the humans. "I'm sure it won't take long, and then you can all get back to planning the best way to make things implode."

Touching his bond to the male, Courfeyrac sighs, finding a mixture of head-pain and the faint buzz of alcohol once more. Grantaire had been doing so well for the last day or so, too. "Where is the lad?"

"Out in the main part of the Musain. I thought you lot might not appreciate him hearing some of what you might be saying." Grantaire shrugs, hunching down even further. "I can get him, if you want."

"No, I'll come to him. I'll be back shortly, gentlemen. Try not to plan anything too daring without me."

"We wouldn't dream of it." Combeferre's reply is full of warmth as well as dry humor, and Courfeyrac's grinning as he follows Grantaire out.

"Sorry." Grantaire mumbles the word. "I just thought it would be nicer to bring the boy to you than to rough him up to get the letter."

"No, it's fine." Flinging his arm around the submissive, Courfeyrac nuzzles his neck as they traverse the short space between the pack's back room and the Musain proper. "I'm sure Enjolras will take up my argument, and I'll be back with them before they notice I'm gone. You're welcome to join us, you know."

"And add what?" Shaking his head, Grantaire studies his feet, though there's a smile on his face. "I'll do what the pack asks me, but I'm no strategist, and the more I learn about politics the more I think the entire topic's doomed from the start. Human packs are too big, their interests too disparate."

"We can't have a worse government than the one we have."

Grantaire gives him a sidelong look.

"All right." Courfeyrac concedes. "There could conceivably be worse governments, but the one we have is pretty bad. I think that trying a republic is a fine idea, and I think that if you wanted you could certainly aid us in our quest to do so. I think Enjolras would appreciate the effort."

Grantaire's smile grows, and Courfeyrac shakes his head as he feels pleasure slide along the pack-bond he shares with the male, barely concealed. While Grantaire seems to adore the rest of them and relish their company, he practically idolizes Enjolras, placing the alpha on a pedestal above anyone else in the pack—far, far above where Grantaire sees himself. It's endearing, in a way, but also frustrating, because Courfeyrac knows that what Enjolras wants most is for Grantaire to stand with him, beside him, not worship him.

He doesn't have time to comment on it, though, because they're in the main room of the Musain, and a young human is gazing up at him with a frown. "Are you Courfeyrac?"

"I am." Bending down so that he's at eye-level with the human child, Courfeyrac smiles. "I heard you have something for me?"

"From Marius." The boy produces a letter from inside his clothing and holds it out in one hand, the other open palm-up.

Courfeyrac places a coin in the child's empty palm and takes the letter from him. "Thank you."

"He said it was very urgent." The boy frowns as he repeats the message, nervousness entering his scent for the first time.

"I shall have a reply with the utmost of speed, then." Opening the letter, Courfeyrac scans the contents, frowns, and then reads it more closely.

The note is short, simple, a request for Courfeyrac to meet Marius at a small café near the border between their pack's territory and Bellamy's, to discuss a potential problem with human relations. The handwriting is rushed, hurried, but the signature is recognizable as Marius'. Raising the letter, Courfeyrac gives it a quick sniff, but it's hard to scent anything aside from the human child who brought it and a faint hint of Marius himself.

Grantaire is a solid presence against Courfeyrac's side, the submissive reading over Courfeyrac's shoulder. "Why does he want us to meet him there? What's he mean by relationships with—" Grantaire glances at the boy. "With others?"

"I truly haven't the faintest idea." Courfeyrac frowns at the child. "He didn't tell you anything else?"

"No." The boy shakes his head. "He just said you should hurry."

"Well…" Courfeyrac considers, then sighs and shoves the letter into his pocket. If the stray needs him, he can't very well refuse him. "Well, I suppose I'll have to give my regrets to my friends, then."

"Can I come?" Grantaire asks the question hesitantly. "I'd like to see him again. I may owe him an apology."

"I won't stop you." Courfeyrac pauses, considering the sharp overlay of alcohol on Grantaire's breath again. Perhaps if he keeps the submissive with him, gives him something to focus on that Grantaire's actually interested in such as Marius, he can keep Grantaire from getting himself into more trouble. "Actually, I think it's a good idea. Perhaps the two of us can help him out of whatever difficulty he's gotten himself into."

Making his apologies to their allies and his pack-mates, Courfeyrac collects his coat and hat and leads the way out of the Musain.

He doesn't notice the human child following them surreptitiously, the boy's expression alternating between puzzlement and curiosity.

XXX

It burns.

It burns against his skin, sizzles his blood where it touches, and he needs to get it off. He needs to get the bringer of agony away from him, _out of him_, because it hates all that he is and all that he is hates it, flares red-hot at its touch, retreats from it, his magic slipping and sliding beyond his reach.

"Stay with me, Marius."

The voice is calm, determined, and Marius whimpers as he struggles to bring his arms around, not understanding why they won't go to his throat, to the spikes there that are slowly driving him mad.

"Soon, pup, you'll get to run. Soon."

The voice croons in his ear, and he thinks that if he opened his eyes he might be able to see the owner, to remember who it is who speaks with authority but can't command him. Pack but not pack, and he needs… he needs…

"They're here. It's two of them, the gamma and the lambda." It's a different voice, less power but more energy.

"Both of them?" The first voice hesitates, then deepens again to an authoritative tone. "That's fine. Better, even. Twice as much pressure on their alpha."

"They should be able to see now." Glee rings in every syllable of the second voice, and Marius tries to move away from it, finding it impossible for some reason.

"Good." There's a note of satisfaction but not of joy in the first voice, and Marius feels himself being hauled up, something being taken from around his wrists.

His hands were bound. That makes sense. That's why he couldn't reach the infuriating, terrible, agonizing thing around his neck. Now his limbs are free, though, and he should be able to—

Hands grab his arms roughly, keep his fingers away from the agony at his neck, and he whimpers once more, twisting in impotent frustration, too weak to properly fight.

"Let's set our bait loose, then."

The last coherent thought he has is gratitude that someone else's fingers are apparently going to loosen the agony at his neck.

Then the spikes drive deeper, and he loses himself in animal panic and pain.

XXX

The streets are less crowded than they had been earlier in the day, and Courfeyrac is actually enjoying his time walking with Grantaire. The sun is warm above them, almost unseasonably warm, and Courfeyrac is certain that Bahorel will be a delight tonight, just as Grantaire is being a delightful companion right now. The male might have a tendency to ramble, but it doesn't bother Courfeyrac, and he's laughing when they approach the place that Marius had designated for their meeting.

It's an odd place for Marius to choose, very close to the pack's border with Bellamy's land, and Courfeyrac finds his feet slowing as they approach the establishment. Why here? Why had Marius not come to them? What possible trouble could he have gotten into with the humans?

Grantaire seems to notice his reticence and pauses in his speech, studying Courfeyrac questioningly.

Courfeyrac shrugs, having nothing concrete to point out to explain his feeling of unease. Hopefully it's just a passing fancy, and they'll meet Marius and everything will be—

The howling is a terrible thing to hear, a wolf's agony given voice from a stubbornly human throat, and Courfeyrac whirls toward the sound, feeling rather than seeing Grantaire do the same.

Marius is only two to three hundred meters down the street, but he might as well be in another world, on the other side of the pack boundary, on Bellamy's land. Marius' cries draw the attention of everyone in the vicinity. He leans against the wall of the building nearest the alley he had staggered out of a moment before, his breath awful heaving pants in between the howls of agony, his hands clawing helplessly at a black band around his neck.

"Marius?" Grantaire's voice rises in outrage and panic, and he takes off running toward Marius a moment before Courfeyrac does.

Courfeyrac follows him, though, and continues running when Grantiare pulls up short for a moment at the edge of their pack's boundary. One of the Pack is hurt—badly hurt, from the sounds he's making, could Change at any moment, and that would be disastrous for all of them. They'll grab Marius and drag him back onto the pack's land, have Enjolras apologize to Bellamy for what was done, and though Bellamy no doubt won't like it no one should be able to complain too strongly.

It's a decent argument, a lawyer's argument, and he comforts himself with the certainty that it will work as he breaks Pack law, does something that he shouldn't but must.

He cannot leave Marius, injured and alone, not when the other wolf has started to trust him and reach out to him for help.

Enjolras will understand, as he always understands.

Marius has collapsed by the time they reach his side. The scents of blood and fear and sickness surround him, and Courfeyrac drops to his knees next to the other wolf. Marius' fingers continue to scrabble at a black leather band tied tightly around his neck, blood oozing around the collar, and his eyes are open wide but seeing nothing.

"What _is_ that?" Grantaire's hands slide along the collar as Courfeyrac restrains Marius' groping hands, Grantaire's fingers tracing around the band to where the clasp must be at the back, and then he pulls back with a yelp of pain. "It's _silver_. The clasp's _silver_, and—"

Courfeyrac knows what's going to happen as soon as Grantaire's hand is burnt by the cursed metal.

It makes no difference.

He and Grantaire are together, bound by pack magic, and they are strong.

There are six wolves in Bellamy's pack, though, led by their alpha for this, and they are _furious_.

Three wolves enter the fray in their fur and three in human form. Courfeyrac gives the first wolf who tries to bite him a good clout across the nose; the first human gets a black eye. While he's busy doing that a second wolf jumps at him, though, drives him back into the wall, and then Bellamy's beta has his teeth locked around Courfeyrac's wrist in a hold that could shatter every delicate bone there in under a second.

Courfeyrac stares into the wolf's eyes, seeing the warning there, the determination.

He doesn't try to dodge the blow from Bellamy's delta, and stars explode across his vision. The delta doesn't give him time to straighten before hitting him again, the strikes fast, filled with more fury than calculation, and Courfeyrac feels consciousness slip away blow by blow.

It finally fades entirely when the wolf holding his wrist shakes his head viciously, snapping bones like toothpicks, and Courfeyrac wonders if he's ever going to wake again.


End file.
